POEMS 


IRENE     HARDY 


REESE  LIBRARY 

OF  THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


A  G  AS  a  iz    HALL 
ALT  A,  CALIFORNIA 


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POEMS 


BY 


IRENE    HARDY 


D.    P.   ELDER  AND   MORGAN   SHEPARD 

SAN       FRANCISCO 

I9O2 


Edition  limited  to  three  hundred  copies. 
Printed  from  type,  and  type  distributed. 


COPYRIGHT,  1901 
BY    IRENE    HARDY 


The  Murdoch  Press 
San  Francisco 


TO    THE    MEMORY   OF 
MY   FATHER    AND    MOTHER 


f\  1°"  ^>  <r»  rr 
• 


Table    of    Contents 

SONNETS 

SONNET  Page   9 

THE    LOVE-SONNET  IO 

A     SONNET    OF    STARS    AND    THE    SONNET  IO 

THE    SONNET    IS    THE    VIOLET  I  I 
WITH    THE    TONGUES    OF    MEN    AND    ANGELS              I  I 

TO    A    VIOLIN  I  2 

THE    IMMORTAL  12 

TAMALPAIS  13- 

BOOKS  13 

HERE    BEGINNETH    SPACE  14 

LAW  15 

MORS    AMORIS  15 

TRUTH  1 6 

THE     EMIGRANT    EXILES  1 6 

TO  17 

AS  IF  IT  HAD  NOT  BEEN?  I  7 

VOCATIONS  I  8 

HYACINTH;  A  CHILD'S  CHARACTER  18 

THE   LION  IN  THE   DESERT  19 

BROWNING  2O 

IN  THE  CORNFIELD  2O 

BRIGHT  LITTLE  COMRADE  21 

A   CHARACTER  21 

THE  MOUNTAIN  LIONESS  22 

CROP  AND  GARDEN  23 
TO  A  FRIEND,   WITH  A  VOLUME  OF  LOWELL' S 

POEMS  23 


Table  of     SONNETS  (continued) 
Contents 

HER    CALENDAR  2A. 
ON    A    PHOTOGRAPH    OF    SCHOOL    CHILDREN               24 

AT    BERKELEY  2r 

A    SHAKESPEARE    READER  26 

EVENING    ON    THE    OAKLAND    HILLS  26 

TRAGEDY  2y 

ATTAINED  2y 

A    FABLE    OF    AMETHYSTS  2g 

SONNETS    OF    A    LOVER  2g 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

SOMETIME  ?  , 

A    CAMEO  33 

AFTERNOON  ** 
A   MEMORY  OF  BEETHOVEN* S  SONATA.   OP.    27:  I      35 

LIFE    AND    DEATH  37 

THE    RAINBOW  ^g 

IN  BLANK   FERSE 

PALATIRE  *  j 

THE    POINT    OF    VIEW 

TT 

A    SHEPHRRD    OF    MEN  ^ 

BERYM'S  PARABLE  ^g 

AS    IT    BEFELL  ro 

NEPHRAN    AND    THE    LAW  56 

THE    VISION    OF    CYRLEON  57 

IN    THE    GARDEN  62 

GRATIAN    BY    THE    FOUNTAIN  64 


IN   BLANK    FERSE  (continued) 

THE    ROMANCE    OF    A    CLOD  68 

A    PARABLE    OF    APPLES  Jl 

AN    INVITATION  73 

ULAN,    THE   STONE-CUTTER  75 
BT   WOOD    AND    FIELD 

PRELUDE:   WOOL-GATHERING  81 

AMONG  THE   OAKS  8  2  - 

WITH  THE  FIELD-LARK  86  - 

IN  THE  FIELD  IN  FEBRUARY  88 

IN  PALO  ALTO  GARDEN  9! 

PALO  ALTO  HILLS  94 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

ELIAN  GRAY  95 

OF  A  SONG   AND   A   DREAM  97 

SONG:   SING  IVY  100 

SONG:  WHEN  YOU  COME  101 

THE  LITTLE  GRAY  BIRD  IO2 

PERHAPS  IF  WE   KNEW  103 

A  FOSTER  MOTHER'S  THOUGHT  104 

TO  EACH  OTHER  1 05 

VERILY  1 06 

TO    A.     B.     C.  107 

TRIOLET  107 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAF:  A  BEAST  DRAMA     109 

ARIEL  AND    CALIBAN  I  i  7 


Table  of 
Contents 


Table  of     MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 
Contents 

A    WEDDING-DAY    GALLOP  121 

THE    NEW    HOUSE    AND    HOME  124 

NOVEMBER    RAIN  !  26 

A    NOVEMBER    POPPY  127 

GO    FORTH    AND    TEACH  I28 

MY    BEECH-TREE  !  2n 

SELF  ,30 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  MOUNTAIN  131 
THE  GREEK  GIRL's  INVOCATION  TO  ATHENA    I  32 

TO    THE    WILD   PENNYROYAL  133 

IN  HERMITAGE    WITH  FANCY  137 

ODE    FOR    FOREFATHERS'    DAY  143 


Poems 


SONNETS 


THE   SONNET 

WRITE  me  a  poem,  fourteen  liquid  lines, — 
The  secret  of  a  heart,  the  longing  of  a  soul; 
But  mind  your  flowing  numbers  do  not  roll 
Their  waves  beyond  the  exquisite  confines 
The  little  garden  of  the  sonnet  shines 

Resplendent  in;  and  mind  you  quite  control 
That  golden  strand  of  rimes, — one,  two, — whose  sole 
Reiterance  your  major  chord  entwines. 
Let  not  your  hand  a  lingering  moment  waste 
Till  it  has  captured,  where  it  floats  and  sings, 

The  birdlike  thought  you  scarce  can  say  you  hear; 
Back  to  its  thicket,  else,  it  hies,  untraced, 

And  leaves  the  poor  sestette  with  trailing  wings, 
And  me  without  the  verse  I  hold  so  dear. 


THE    LOVE-SONNET 

THERE  lies  a  little  mirrored  pool  alone, 
And  far  from  traveled  ways,  this  side  the  crest 
Of  day  where  morning  dwells;  fair  on  its  breast 
A  planet  shines  at  night,  as  if  its  own 
Flame  would  transform  the  pool  into  a  stone 
Of  splendor,  fit  for  crowned  Esther,  dressed 
In  coronation  glory,  for  her  quest 
Before  Ahasuerus  on  his  throne. 
This  little  pool, —  ah,  let  me  look  therein, 

And  see  whence  well  its  waters,  pure  and  clear. 

No  wiser  than  the  bird  whose  image  darts 
From  edge  to  edge !      Nor  never  shall  I  win 

That  secret.     Shakespeare  knew,  and  she,  that  dear 
And  great  one,  first  in  Browning's  heart  of  hearts. 


A  SONNET  OF  STARS  AND  THE  SONNET 

COME  watch  with  me,   Dear  Heart,  the  seventh 
white  star 

That  shines  above  the  hill.      Ah,  wait  seven  more 
That  dart  red  rays;  recount  them  all  before 
The  new  moon  sets  behind  that  cloudy  bar 
Across  the  glowing  west.      What  those  worlds  are 
My  words  would  fain  be,  most  of  all — a  lore 
To  speak  the  heart  in,  tinctured  to  the  core 
With  light  and  flame,  those  orbs  exceeding  far: 
A  little  tale  of  red  and  white, — of  flame 

And  fire;  rose-love,  and  lily-truth,  twice  told 

In  mystic  seven  twice  over;  chanted  yet 
Again,  O  Love,  close  to  thine  ear,  a  name 
Just  audible  to  thee,  for  thee  to  hold 

And  have  until  the  stars  themselves  forget. 


10 


THE   SONNET   IS    THE    VIOLET 

THE  sonnet  is  the  violet  of  song, 
A  flower  that  springs  responsive  to  the  rain 
Of  tears,  or  to  the  heart  when  under  strain 
Of  joy  so  deep  that  silence  would  do  wrong 
To  life  and  love;    then  lyric  phrases  throng 

The  thought, — intoning,  rise  and  fall, —  again, 
Again, —  like  evening  bells  in  low  refrain, 
As  if  the  words  the  passion  would  prolong. 
O  thou  that  seekest  to  make  this  little  flower 
Bloom  in  thy  garden-plot  of  poesy, 

Behold  how  dear  it  was  to  laureate  kings, 
And  plant  thou,  too,  in  sacred  earth  and  hour; 
And  men  shall  love  thee  in  the  years  to  be 

As  one  who  loved  and  cherished  loveliest  things. 

WITH    THE    TONGUES    OF    MEN 
AND    ANGELS 

ONE  sweep  of  Homer's  purple  paints  the  sea 
Gurgling  'mid  ^Egea's  islanded  confines; 
One  touch  of  Shakespeare's  pen  incarnadines 
The  waters  of  the  world  with  tragedy. 
Milton's  bare  word  on  Vallombrosa's  tree 

Makes   thick   the   leaves.     And   thought   the   more 

resigns 

Itself  to  such  imaginings  since  that  it  pines 
And  beats  against  its  cage  for  language  free 
As  theirs  to  speak  out  plain  its  life  in.      Star 

And  sun  commend  the  prayer  for  words  of  light: 

Perfection's  rounded  worlds  far  swinging  on 
Within  their  shining  orbits  draw  from  lar 
The  soul's  desire  up  to  a  glittering  height 
It  had  not  tried  had  no  foot  further  gone. 


ii 


TO    A   VIOLIN 

In  silva  viva  situi: 

Jam  mortua  cano. —  Inscription  on  a  "violin. 

O  INSTRUMENT  of  lovely  sound,  art  naught 
But  wood  and  yet  can  be  such  heavenly  friend  ? 
Thou  that  wert  tree  once,  seraph  that  art,  commend 
Thy  silences  to  me,  till  troubled  thought, 
That  wakes  o'  nights  o'er  little  tasks  half- wrought, 
Learns  to  be  still  and  wait  life's  secret  trend, 
While  into  every  fiber  life  shall  send 
Harmonies  from  archangels'  choiring  caught. 
So  shall  there  be  from  me  when  I  am  dead 
Music  immortal,  sweet  and  searching;  yea, 
The  end  shall  never  be,  and  I  shall  sing 
Away  tears  of  the  unsatisfied  and  say 

To  hearts  (that  wist  not  how  they  need)  what  bread 
Says  to  the  spirit  when  smoking  censers  swing. 


THE   IMMORTAL 

A  MAN  went  forth  to  battle  once  and  set 
His  flag  upon  the  blackened  wall  of  fate; 
Then  when  the  death  foreseen  had  made  him  great, 
His  mourning  country  strove  to  pay  the  debt 
With  laureled  marble  and  with  carved  regret; 
She  wrote  his  deed  upon  the  book  of  state, 
She  graved  it,  blazoned,  on  the  palace  gate, 
Dared  Time  himself  to  read  and  then  forget. 
Yet  moss-grown  is  that  name  now..    None  can  know 
What  thing  was  done  that  marble  should  be  piled. 
But  brave  young  hearts  arise,  and  haste,  and  go 
To  victory  still,  chanting  with  joyous  tread 
The  ballad  bold  that  roused  and  reconciled 
To  death  that  nameless  one  among  the  dead. 


12 


TAMALPAIS 

LOOK  where  the  sunset  in  a  glare  of  gold 
Outspreads  a  glittering  net  across  the  strait: 
You  see  a  mountain  wreathed  long  and  late 
With  opaline  mists  that  sweep  in  gorgeous  fold 
On  fold,  above,  below  ?     So,  you  behold 
Mount  Tamalpais,  the  purple,  ultimate, 
Unmythic  pillar  of  that  Golden  Gate 
Which  opens  outward,  beckoning  to  bold 
Mariners,  tempted  of  the  winds  and  seas 
To  seek  some  orient  in  the  flaming  west: 

Tempted  of  an  inward  glow  to  leave  all 
Behind,  'scape  all,  and  greaten  out  and  please 
The  spirit  in  some  wider  empire,  guessed 
Of  by  that  glow,  conjectured  by  that  call. 


BOOKS 

WHAT  though  "  the  glory  that  was  Greece"   I 
hold 

In  fee  but  as  a  faint  reflected  gleam  ? 
What  though  "the  grandeur  that  was  Rome"  must 

seem 

To  me  forever  but  a  tale  that 's  told, 
Mingled  with  murmurs  of  the  dim  and  old 

Far  sounds  of  remembered  evenings,  when  a  dream 
Of  it,  stirred  by  my  father's  voice,  did  stream 
Processionary  through  the  twilight  cold  ? 
Far  other  worlds  have  I  to  travel  in: 
One  way  far  as  the  morning  star  I  go, 

Hearkening  to  shepherd  songs  of  David's  lyre; 
Or  some  far  isle  in  Prosper' s  boat  I  win, 

By  stream,  and  wood,  and  freshet  springs  to  know 
Joy  for  the  thought,  range  for  the  heart's  desire. 


HERE   BEGINNETH    SPACE 
I 

I  SAW  a  pillar  rise  against  the  sky, 
That  veiled  one  star  behind  its  crystal  shaft; 
Slow  outward  moving  went  an  oarless  raft 
Seeking  I  saw  not  what  ere  light  should  die; 
All  round  that  lonely  land  the  rocks  piled  high, 
Nor  signified  an  end,  nor  wit  nor  craft 
Of  builder;  winds  blew  fair  as  if  to  waft 
A  breath  of  hope,  but  hope  came  not  thereby. 
With  utter  grief  so  dreamed  I  that  I  dreamed; 
Wherefore,  I  had  no  sleep,  for  I  would  learn 

Where  went  the  oarless  raft;  with  soul  aflame 
I  followed  on  and  on,  until  I  seemed, 
Upon  a  shoreless  ocean  lone,  to  turn 

And  flee  a  formless  Dread  without  a  name. 


II 

Ah,  wistful  soul,  that  cannot  be  at  rest ! 
Thou  frettest  in  the  circle  drawn  around 
This  little  world  ?     To  others  without  bound 

Or  limit, —  yet  to  thee  its  east  and  west 

Are  only  door-posts  whence  thou  makest  quest 
For  somewhat  more  of  truth  than  thou  hast  found 
By  weighing  suns  or  atoms,  taking  sound 

And  finding  reefs  and  barriers  thou  hadst  guessed. 

Behold  earth's  wisdom;  take  its  measure  now; 
Let  thy  surveyor  soul  be  satisfied 

And  know.      Carry  thy  chain  and  set  thy  rod 

Forward,  beyond,  one  furlong  more,  yet  thou, 
Like  all  before  thee  born,  shalt  run  to  hide 
Thy  baffled  face  before  the  feet  of  God. 


LAW 

LAW  said  to  the  river,  "  Go  this  winding  way, 
And  I  will  go  with  thee,  down  to  the  sea; 
Yea,  I  will  bring  thee  home  again,  all  be, 
Through  rolling  clouds  where  hail  and  thunder  play. 
There  woven  with  the  sunlight,  ray  for  ray, 
Thou  then  wilt  shine,  and  men  beholding  me 
Intimate  in  archangel  company 
Shall  gladly  choose  me  lord  and  me  obey." 
I  saw  that  river  meet  the  ocean  waste: 
A  ship  far  seaward  felt  beneath  her  keel 

A  friendlier  wave;  a  whirling  tempest  turned 
And  fled  to  unsailed  seas;  a  white  bird  traced 

Her  homeward  way.      And,  trembling,  I  could  feel 
That  overhead  a  seven-hued  splendor  burned. 

MORS    AMORIS 

LOVE  lay  dead  upon  her  funeral  pyre, 
And  men  and  angels  mourned  her  where  she  lay; 
The  sun's  light  fled,  the  stars  all  waned  away, 
The  lean  white  moon  put  out  her  silver  fire. 
Said  Grief,  <<  'T  was  Pride  that  stabbed  her.      Deep 

and  dire 
Shall  be  his  hell." 

* '  Nay,  now,  your  harsh  words  stay ! 
I  saw  him  dying  by  her  door  this  day," 
Wept  Pity,  while  she  wreathed  a  golden  tire 
Of  asphodel  round  Love's  poor  head. 

"To  death 
I  wounded  her,"  wailed  Truth.    "Deep  within  the 

sea, 
I '11  drown  myself." 

"  Yet  none  of  these,  O  none," — 
A  whisper  rose,  as  it  were  Love's  last  breath, — 

"  Hath  brought  me  low.  Live  thou,  sweet  Truth,  for 

me: 
This  deed  of  death  Indifference  hath  done." 

15 


TRUTH 

MEN  make  thought  of  thee  after  their  own 
Measure.      According  to  their  wit  they  sound 
Thy  seas  and  search  thy  skies.   When  they  have  found 
The  thing  that  verifies  their  guess, —  some  stone 
Too  old  for  life  carved  deep  with  life,  some  cone 
Where  fern  should  be,  some  square  that  should  be 

round, — 

They  make  the  world's  broad  market-place  resound, 
Till  earth  with  shattered  faiths  lies  thickly  strewn. 
Let  us  forbear  to  blame, —  let  us  forbear ! 
For  wistfully  upon  the  desert  waste 

Men  watch  the  eastern  quarter  of  the  sky; 
For  wistfully,  with  wide  eyes  half-aware 

Of  somewhat  waiting  still  to  know  and  taste, 
Youth  runs  to  meet  thee  face  to  face  and  die. 


THE    EMIGRANT    EXILES 

LANDWARD,  at  dawn,  we  saw  the  forests  cloud 
The  high  horizon's  rim;  we  heard  the  song 
Of  waking  birds  upon  the  shore  and  watched  the  long 
Low  wave  that  lapping  went  with  whisper  loud 
Up  to  the  rocks  of  purple  gray;  and  proud 
Our  canvas  swelled  to  pass  the  savage  throng 
Of  monsters  set  with  plan  to  do  us  wrong 
By  some  grim  power  those  regions  dire  allowed. 
A  sapphire  sky  bending  a  friendly  dome 
Above  an  island  where  life's  daily  task 

May  be,  in  peace,  with  simple  comfort  done  — 
A1  kindly  sea  for  us  encircling  home; 
"O,  these  are  all  our  wayworn  spirits  ask! 
Comes  hope  again  with  yonder  rising  sun  ? 


16 


TO  

WHEN  I  behold  thy  spirit's  lofty  tree 
Unwithered,  rich  in  leaf,  and  flower,  and  fruit, 
And  know  it  has  not  place  to  strike  a  root, 
Except  in  fields  of  sorrow  —  griefs  I  see 
And  name  not,  death  and  loss, —  my  thought  of  thee 
Makes  wreaths  heroic;  marveling,  though  mute 
Before  the  strength  that  keeps  a  resolute 
Great  soul  unharmed  of  its  integrity. 
Thou  hast  laid  hold  on  some  eternal  rock 
Of  truth  and  fearest  no  unseen  disaster 

Of  time  or  tide;  for  grievous  earthly  things 
(Thou  sayest  still)  are  but  for  seasons,  mock 
Our  merely  mortal  part,  and  cannot  master 
What  knows  itself  above  the  need  of  wings. 


AS    IF   IT   HAD    NOT    BEEN? 

A    WHIRL  of  gnats  above  a  twilight  pool 
Falling  a-crisp  when  summer  lightnings  blaze; 
A  black  foray  from  out  the  anthill  there, 
That  drowns  beneath  a  sudden  rush  of  rain; 
A  universe  of  crawling  atoms,  dead 

Within  a  sun-dried  inch  of  vagrant  foam 
Stranded  by  slowly  lapsing  July  pond, — 
And  all  is  naught,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ? 
Slow  aeons,  then  a  watery  wash  of  air; 

Huge  fronds  and  monster  forests  fallen  and  old; 

Myriad  creatures  whelmed  in  ribbed  rocks, 
And  man  at  last,  and  last,  upon  a  whirling  world; 
Then  all  burnt  out  to  ashes,  dead  and  cold, — 
And  all  is  naught,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ? 


VOCATIONS 


"I 


Along  a  hillward  way  with  head  perpend, 
'«  If  this  be  all  of  life,  why,  come  the  end! 
What  good  in  joys  one  has  not  had  and  shared  ? 
Yon  minstrel,  velvet-clad  and  yellow-haired, — 

The  king  keeps  him  to  stare  and  fool  and  spend! — 
I  would  be  he,  would  but  my  fortune  mend; 
Forget  what  I  aspired  to,  what  I  dared." 
He  laid  him  down  beneath  a  thicket  shade; 
He  slept  a  dreamless  sleep  and  saw  the  world 

Anew;  he  rose  and  lifted  up  a  stone 
And  set  it  in  a  torrent's  path  and  made 
A  city  safe  from  ruin,  all  but  hurled 

Upon  its  peace  by  mountain  tempests  thrown. 


HYACINTH;    A    CHILD'S    CHARACTER 

OFT  have  I  seen  the  poet's  word  inspire 
His  waking  soul,  until  before  him  seemed 
To  shine  some  glory  from  whose  edge  there  streamed 
Into  his  face  foregleams  of  high  desire 
To  be  fulfilled.      And  I  have  seen,  in  fire 

And  forge  of  conflict  shaped,  his  will  that  dreamed 
Aforetime  dallying  with  itself,  redeemed 
From  slavery's  threat  and  clothed  in  king's  attire. 
When  he  beheld  the  truth,  he  followed  far 
To  grasp  it  for  his  own.     It  was  no  grief 

To  him  that  then  he  knew  not  why  he  sought; 
Day  after  day  brought  gifts  of  joy,  and  star 
On  star  the  night  prepared;  so  was  he  lief, 

And  glad  to  know,  not  knowing  he  was  taught. 


18 


THE    LION   IN   THE    DESERT 

HERE   must  I  crouch  beneath  the  shriveled  sage, 
Until  the  night  comes  down  upon  the  sand 
A-scorch  with  fiery  day,  where  it  has  spanned 
With  senseless  blue  the  desert's  biting  rage 
At  beast  and  bush,  since  morn,  as  if  to  wage 
A  war  of  hate  on  all  the  hollow  land. 
Here  must  I  lie  alone,  a-thirst,  unfanned 
By  stir  of  leaves,  trapped  in  the  sun's  own  cage. 
I  know  the  bare  pool  by  the  dead  cliff's  foot; 
If  the  fierce  sun  lap  it  not  all  ere  dark 

As  he  laps  my  blood  now,  I  '11  bring  her  there, 
My  mate,  panting  yonder  at  the  hot  root 

Of  that  white  rock, —  gate  of  the  devil's  park 
Wherein  the  red  sun  finds  his  nightly  lair! 


II 

Ah,  drink,  poor  mate,  here  in  the  shrunken  pool, 
Enough,  now,  till,  when  the  darkest  dark  drops  black, 
We  follow  forth  the  sprinkled  shining  track 
Of  the  unhurting  stars,  slow  by  the  cool 
Flow  of  low  streams;  the  desert  shall  not  fool 
Our  footsteps  out  across  its  flaring  rack 
Again,  nor  take  our  blood,  nor  toll  us  back 
To  grisly  empires  where  the  sun  has  rule: 
For  we  are  masters  of  the  world,  not  he; 

The  night  is  always  ours;  not  even  the  stars 

Have  dared  to  interfere,  and  the  high  moon 
Goes  by  her  own  white  path,  though  she  can  see 
Ours  leads  the  best  way.      There  no  desert  bars, 
And  cool  in  thickets  deep  we  '11  sleep  at  noon. 


BROWNING 

1860 

MEN  said  there  were  no  ways  that  they  could  climb 
The  mountain  some  could  see.    Nay,  more,  they 

said, — 

Beholding  as  through  mist  its  veiled  head, — 
It  was  no  mountain,  but  a  cloud;  or  time 
Would  prove  it  but  a  barren,  unsublime, 

And  cheerless  country;  neither  gram  for  bread, 
Nor  in  its  purlieus,  bloom  for  honey  spread; 
Not  order  but  confusion  all  its  rime. 

1890 

But  now  it  is  men's  joy  to  find  twelve  ways 
To  one  clear  spot;  and  yet  to  find  too  dim 

No  shade,  no  bough  vociferant  with  leaves 
Upon  the  mountain.      Ay,  they  haste  to  praise 
The  clouds  they  see  on  the  horizon's  rim, 

Where,    sovereign    and    serene,    the    great   cone 
cleaves. 

IN    THE    CORN-FIELD 

CNCOMPASSED  close  by  ranks  of  bladed  corn, 
C/    Where  shade  and  shine  their  harmless  rapiers  cross, 

Where  dallying  airs  the  yellow  cornsilk  toss, 
Upon  the  earth  at  rest  and  unforlorn 
Though  all  alone,  I  lie  in  tranquil  scorn 

Of  nearer  care  or  far  to-morrow's  loss; 

And  if  above  my  head  'tis  silken  floss 
That  floats,  or  cloud,  I  '11  think  to-morrow  morn. 
For,  oh,  it  is  enough  to  lapse  into  a  dream 

And  let  the  wearied  heart  its  pulsing  slow; 

Enough  to  feel  the  folding  air  at  play 
On  brow  and  cheek,  and  watch  the  stream 

Of  downward  sloping  leaves,  and  come  and  go 
In  thought  with  them,  as  forth  and  back  they  sway. 

20 


BRIGHT   LITTLE    COMRADE 

BRIGHT  little  comrade  from  the  woods,  come  show 
Thy  antic  cheer  about  my  sunlit  room 
Of  books,  that  stand  in  moods  of  gloom 
Because  thought's  tide  is  out,  heart's  rhythm  is  low 
With  weariness.      Friendly  thou  art  and  know 
Good  friend  in  me,  who  yet  did  dare  presume 
To  take  thee  from  thy  home,  thy  little  doom 
To  make  for  thee,  and  longer  life  bestow. 
So,  thou  hast  not  been  eaten  by  the  snake; 
Thy  gentle  blood  no  weasel  drank  at  night; 

Thou  hast  not  starved  'mid  winter's  frozen  wood, 
Nor  waited  vainly  for  the  sun  to  make 

Sweet  the  wild  nuts  for  thee.      Yet,  little  sprite, 
Thou  still  doth  question  if  my  deed  were  good  ? 


A    CHARACTER 

"  Different  from   himself." —  Plutarch. 

YEA,  it  is  true,  my  soul,  yet  hard  to  say: 
His  outlook  has  no  mountain  nor  no  sky; 
Ships  of  his  mart  are  ever  sailing  by 
On  some  mean  errand,  though  he  knows  the  way 
To  lands  Elysian.      You  could  name  no  day 
Of  his  not  stained  with  lowest  self,  nor  pry 
Into  his  thoughts  and  not  appalled  fly 
The  downward  drawing  of  his  soul  of  clay. 
Yet  moods  there  are  of  his  that  burn  with  gleams 
Of  archangelic  fire, —  that  re-illume  and  stir 

His  coarsely-vestured  soul,  till,  as  once  it  shone, 
Illuminate  it  shines;  to  doubt  him  seems 
The  caviling  of  an  envious  mind,  a  slur 

For  which  devoted  love  could  scarce  atone. 


21 


THE    MOUNTAIN    LIONESS 

I 

I  HAD  remembered  it,  the  crunch  of  bones, 
Almost  too  vividly  to  merely  look 

And  let  them  pass,  the  woman  with  a  book, 
And  that  fair  child  with  plaything  cones 
And  bits  of  pebbles,  while  across  the  stones 

Of  my  own  spring  he  tripped  and  shook 

The  very  brake  where  I  lay  hid,  and  took 
A  rose  as  one  takes  lightly  what  he  owns. 
I  had  remembered  it,  and  hunger  lean, 

Low  crouching  'neath  the  brier,  into  his  face 
Breathed  hotly  through  the  tangled,  fern-thick  screen; 

So  close  I  breathed,  so  fierce,  as  to  displace 
His  yellow  curls,  as  though  a  wind  blew  by; 
No  other  harm!     This  beast-pent  soul  knows  why. 

II 

I  was  a  woman  once,  a  mother, —  God, 
That  I  remember  it!  that  I  still  know! 
I  had  a  child  like  that;  and  'twas  my  woe 

That,  being  beautiful,  I  therefore  trod 

The  hearts  of  men  as  leaves  upon  the  sod, 
And  tasked  my  soul  its  uttermost  to  show 
That  men  the  love  of  angels  would  forego 

Even  for  my  meanest  smile,  my  faintest  nod. 

I  let  him  die  with  him  that  loved  us  both; 
Then  men  despised  me,  and  I  died  to  this: 

A  soulless  beast,  whose  yellow  whelps  were  loth 
To  own  her,  so  died  too.      Oh,  even  to  miss 

Even  then  might  make  me  loathe  myself  so  deep, 

My  soul,  long  dead,  would  come  to  life  and  weep! 


22 


CROP   AND    GARDEN 

THE  rent  within  the  cloak  thy  neighbor  wears 
Forbear  to  see;  forbear  to  know  that  bread 
Comes  coarse  to  him  and  served  on  delf,  yet  dread 
To  lose  the  word  his  life  unwitting  spares 
For  salt  to  thine.      Forthright,  as  on  he  fares 
In  tranquil  frame  although  his  heart  has  bled, 
And  still  aches  on  with  tears  he  must  not  shed, 
Haste  with  what  help  thou  hast  for  all  he  bears. 
Behold,  there,  how  thy  crop  and  garden  grow, 
Erect  in  sunshine,  sweet  in  fruit  and  seed; 

See  how  they  give,  not  counting  loss  or  gain; 
They  have  not  wicked  wit  enough  to  know 
Preeminence  of  right  above  the  wilding  weed 
To  gifts  of  light,  to  treasures  of  the  rain. 

TO    A    FRIEND,    WITH    A    VOLUME    OF 
LOWELL'S    POEMS 

F.   c.  T. 

A    YELLOW  sapphire  set  in  frosted  gold, 
A  charm  of  purple  sardius  subtly  chased, 
A  silken  scarf  with  golden  broideries  traced, 
A  blood-red  rose,  a  bud  of  rarer  mould, 
A  poet's  book  with  untold  tales  out-told, — 

Which   shall   it   be?      With  heart's  warm  wisdom 

graced 

This  milestone  on  your  highway  newly  placed 
Your  friend  would  mark  in  fashion  sweet  and  old. 
And  so  what  this  gift  can  will  let  it  say, 
As  trusting  its  interpreter  to  find 

Remembering  moments  as  he  goes  the  way 
This  book  shall  lead  him,  when  his  gladdened  mind 
But  faintly  conscious  of  a  thought's  delay, 

May  feel,  "  Thine,  too,  the  impulse  of  this  day." 

23 


HER    CALENDAR 

S.    M.    M.,   JAN.    16,    1886. 
'E  do  not  count  her  age  by  days  and  years, 


w 


But  by  the  constant  summer  in  her  face; 
Not  by  the  sorrows  that  have  brought  her  tears, 

But  by  the  faith  that  takes  away  their  trace; 

Hence  have  we  kept  in  warm  familiar  place 
Such  record, —  be  we  younger, —  as  endears 

All  that  she  is  to  us,  and  adds  a  grace 
To  each  till  each  as  old  as  she  appears. 
But  we,  who  older  walk  with  her,  have  caught 

That  chrism,  too,  that  doth  her  life  enrich; 
For  the  high  faith  which  in  her  soul  hath  wrought 

Reflects  a  light  on  ours  from  that  fair  niche 
Wherein  our  hearts,  in  love  for  her  made  bold, 
Have  set  her  that  she  never  may  grow  old. 


ON    A    PHOTOGRAPH    OF 
SCHOOL    CHILDREN 

THEY  say  we  praise  too  much  this  lyric  land, 
Its  bloomy  plains,  its  mountains  bold  and  high; 
With  orient  phrase  and  metaphor,  we  dye 
Its  golden  rivers  and  its  wave- warm  strand; 
There  where  our  homes,  by  sea-winds  faintly  fanned, 
'Mid  lucent-clustered  vines  and  orchards  lie, 
We  dwell,  complacent  that  no  other  sky 
Rounds  its  blue  dome  above  a  clime  so  grand. 
Is  this  a  grievous  fault,  if  it  be  true, 

To  love  our  land  ?     But  never  let  them  say 

O  bright  expectant  throng,  sun-pictured  here, 
That  Nature  showers  in  vain  her  gifts  on  you. 

Lo,  with  these  splendors  you  may  match  your  day, 
And  greaten  all  the  glory  of  the  year. 


24 


AT    BERKELEY 

E.  R.  s. 

THIS  place  will  love  one  poet  first  and  best, 
Whoever  comes  hereafter.      Not  a  stone 
That  lies  along  the  hillward  path  alone 
Where  he  has  trod,  but  there  his  eye  would  rest 
As  on  a  friend,  should  he  return  in  quest 

Through  haunts  remembered;  nothing  he  has  known 
And  praised  but  still  would  choose  him  as  its  own 
Interpreter  and  best  beloved  guest. 
Some  souls  there  were  who  thought  the  bramble  vine 
That  twitched  his  sleeve  to  offer  fruit  or  flower 

Had  more  than  blessedness  enough;  while  they 
Found  no  good  words  to  speak  their  debt  or  shrine 
Their  love  in;  some  recorded  the  one  hour 
They  heard  his  voice  as  life's  own  natal  day. 

Wise  hearts  have  conned  his  wisdom,  line  on  line, 
And  fools  have  left  their  thrones  and  learned  to  pray; 
And  those  who  loved  him  most  love  most  his  way 

Of  still  withdrawal, —  love,  and  make  no  sign. 


A   SHAKESPEARE    READER 

AN  island  where  illusive  voice  and  scene, 
To  lead  them  to  the  truth,  led  men  astray; 

A  leafy  wood  astir  with  pastoral  play; 
A  castle  cursed  with  demon  king  and  queen; 
A  palace  brightened  by  the  sunny  sheen 

Of  Portia's  locks, —  these  fancy  could  portray 

With  pallid  brush;  then  they  would  fade  away 
Like  painted  landscapes  on  a  magic  screen: 
But  show  us,  thou  interpreter  >  the  wand 

That  Prosper  buried  certain  fathoms  deep! 
Thou  hast  its  potent  art.      With  voice  and  hand 

Conjure, —  we  follow  to  that  orient  steep 
Which  overlooks  the  Shakespeare  tableland, 
And  there,  entranced,  'mid  living  landscapes  stand. 


EVENING    ON    THE    OAKLAND    HILLS 

NOW  from  the  dusk  that  visits  field  and  hill 
I  hear  the  tumult  of  the  mist-veiled  town, 
An  evening  murmur  of  repose  sink  down, 
Till  in  the  peace  of  night  the  world  is  still. 
One  bird  sings  on  with  reminiscent  trill 
Of  daylight  lyrics  on  the  leafy  crown 
Of  thickets  deep,  where  lies,  'mid  shadows  brown, 
His  little  home,  vine-hid  from  every  ill. 
Half-heard,  the  iron  causeway's  clangor  holds 
In  check  the  movement  of  the  memory, 

And  life  seems  all  a  picture,  far  and  faint. 
The  old  sea  pauses,  far  away  the  folds 

Of  his  gray  vesture  flings  in  foam-bands  free, 

Curves  round  the  crags,  and  lies  in  lulled  restraint. 


26 


TRAGEDY 

"The  tragedy  is  not  his  (Rousseau's);  but  the 
tragedy  is  the  world's,  that  it  should  have  had  to 
endure  him  as  the  master  of  its  thought,  its  leader." 

NOT  that,  O  World,  thy  grave  diurnal  round 
Beheld  the  heart  of  man  unreconciled 
To  such  a  lot  as  thou  hadst  given  thy  child; 
Not  that  man's  thought  was  red  with  blood,  or  bound 
In  prison  by  his  brother's  hate,  or  wound 
Within  the  web  of  destiny  or  wild, 
Dark  death's;  nay,  not  because  of  these  up-piled, 
Do  fear  and  pity  all  my  soul  astound: 
But  that,  O  World,  processionary  moved 
Thy  nations, —  this  unto  its  doom,  and  this 

To  starlike  state,  marshaled  thereto  by  fate, 
Wrapped  up  in  one  fire-shafted  word,  amiss 

From  mouth  ignoble,  while  thy  prophets  proved 
Un-Delphian,  dumb,  not  daring  to  be  great. 


ATTAINED 

A  STATELY  metaphor  they  carved  for  her 
In  far-brought  marble  on  a  splendid  tomb, 
Among  rare  roses  in  the  scented  gloom 
Of  ancient  groups  of  fir  and  jumper. 
As  if  the  thought  engrailed  mournings  were 
Full  reparation  for  a  sad  fore-doom, 
Scarce  had  she  gone  from  out  her  lonely  room 
When  shadowing  draperies  made  the  day  a  blur. 
Yet  now  the  joy  of  birds  in  morning  song, 
The  noonday  quiet  in  the  lanes  of  leaves, 

The  hope  of  dawns,  the  spheral  peace  of  night, 
All  come  to  that  proud  spot;   there  starbeams  throng, 
And  immemorial  Nature  smiles  and  weaves 
That  heart's  long  grief  into  her  web  of  light. 

27 


A    FABLE    OF   AMETHYSTS 

O  ERAPHAEL  wooed  a  woman  angel  fair, 
O  And  laid  his  life  before  her  fateful  feet. 

She  laughed, —  her  laughter  was  most  sweet, — 
And  tossed  him  back  from  out  her  twisted  hair 
A  blood-red  rose, — his  hand  had  placed  it  there; — 

"  Take  back  your  rose,  yourself,  and  go  repeat 

This  tale,"  she  said,  "  to  her  whom  next  you  meet; 
For  such  fine  playthings  she  perchance  may  care." 
And  thus  his  heart's  great  fervor  won  away, 

She  threw  aside  as  lightly  as  his  flower, 
For  him,  this  made  a  lifetime's  bitter  day; 

For  her,  the  triumph  of  an  idle  hour; 
For  him  life  paused,  its  currents  turned  astray, 

Love  died  and  Hate  seized  all  her  princely  dower. 

II 

Then  fell  Seraphael's  tears  upon  the  ground 

Across  the  purple  flower  he  held  and  kissed; 

Then  rained  the  purple  drops  like  hail  through  mist 
And  fell  pale  Muriel's  woful  feet  around; 
Her  pale  and  paler  growing  hair  unbound, 

That  was  of  shredded  gold  a  wondrous  twist, 
Her  cheeks,  her  azure  eyes,  so  unprofound, 

All  sank  dissolved  and  froze  to  amethyst. 

MORAL 

What  if  my  fable  be  in  thought  absurd  ? 

Two  seeds  of  truth  lie  in  its  crabbed  core; 
And  man  may  read  anew  what  he  has  heard 

Since  woman's  face  its  blush  of  beauty  wore; 
And  woman  feel  again  the  truth  which  stirred 

Her  heart  at  Eden's  closed  and  flaming  door. 


28 


SONNETS    OF   A   LOVER 
I 

I  KNOW  not,  O  God,  what  chrism  shall  be  mine, 
Of  loss,  thorn-crowned,  or  love  supreme  and  whole; 
But  let  it  be  that  I  may  bear  my  soul 
Blameless  though  afraid  before  that  divine 
Ark,  where  'mid  angels'  wings  thou  didst  enshrine 
The  Nobler  Love.      Take  Thou  of  thought  control 
Until  upon  my  breast  the  sacred  stole 
Of  Love's  investiture  may  fitly  shine. 
Thou  dost  instruct  me;  light  is  not  withheld; 
I  would  exalt  myself  to  that  I  know, 

For  her  whom  I  shall  choose;  for  her  would  rise 
Above  myself;  for  her  would  haste,  compelled 
To  holiest  heights  of  being,  there  to  go 
Comrade  of  stars,  frequenter  of  the  skies. 

II 

Could  you  let  my  heart  speak,  O  lady  fair, 
And  tell  how,  ever  exalting  love  and  you, 
It  has  uplifted  life  and  led  it  through 
The  lowlands,  up  the  high  and  sunlit  stair 
Of  duty, —  oh,  if  you  could,  you  might  care 

A  little  for  this  rose, —  love's  blossoming  true, — 
Sprung  by  the  path  where  you  have  brushed  the  dew 
In  passing;   and  a  little  I  might  share 
The  thought  thus  wakened,  and  a  little  cherish 
This  rose,  that  wistful  rears  its  tender  head 

Looking  to  Love's  domain;  there  would  it  shrine 
Its  joyous  boughs  about  our  home,  nor  perish 

Though  thou  and  I  were  numbered  with  the  dead, 
Though  there  thy  heart  lay  buried  low  with  mine. 


29 


Sonnets  of  III 

A  bird  sings  in  the  garden  of  my  heart, 
And  all  day  long  I  hear  its  carol  clear; 
At  night  it  folds  its  gentle  wings  so  near, 

Its  tender  pulsings  stir  my  blood  and  start 

The  tears  within  my  eyes  to  think  love's  art 

Should  stay  her  wings  with  me  and  make  so  dear 
The  rude  wild  bowers  of  my  demesne,  nor  fear 

But  she  should  find  her  spirit's  counterpart. 

All  day  I  go  resolved  and  thinking  how 

To  make  more  sweet  for  her  that  garden  place; 
How  I  will  pluck  away  the  weeds,  the  rose 

Of  love  to  plant  there  for  her  nesting-bough; 
How  I  will  school  my  heart  to  every  grace 
That  it  may  be  her  home,  her  one  repose. 


IV 

As  Dante's  soul  uplifted,  whiter  grew 

When  thinking  Beatrice's  prayer  would  be 
For  his  ennobling,  so  mine  turns  to  thee, 

My  heart's  astronomer,  to  find  the  clue 

To  guiding  stars  yet  hidden  from  my  view, 
But  risen  to  thine.      The  clouded  orbs  I  see 
Through  mists  of  earth,  barely  suffice  to  me 

To  show  the  devious  path  I  still  pursue. 

Could  I  conspire  with  the  archangel  there 
Before  thy  heart's  flame-guarded  paradise! 
Fear  not,  sweet  spirit;  I  should  walk  unshod 

Its  ways,  and  kneeling  where  thou  kneel' st  at  prayer, 
If  I  should  hear  my  faltered  name,  arise 
Assured  of  life,  of  love,  of  thee,  of  God. 


V  Sonnets  of 

Lady,  thy  goodness  shone  to  me  from  far, 

Long  ere  my  soul  beheld  its  luminous  ray 

Of  high  serenity  athwart  my  way 
As  certain  light  from  some  invariable  star. 
So  have  I  seen  in  desert  paths  the  spar 

Of  dim  white  crystal  gleaming  in  the  gray 

Of  night;   so  have  I  known  that  reflex  play 
Imaged  an  orb  whose  lights  eternal  are. 
Tranquil  with  hope,  straight  on  I  fare,  and  find 

Clear  ground  before  me,  since  one  white  star  beams 

Constant,  though  far,  along  the  path  I  go. 
Wherefore,  to  that  benignant  light  I  bind 

Observance,  till,  O  greatener  of  my  dreams, 
I  come  to  thee,  life's  highest  lore  to  know. 


VI 

WITH    A    TREE-CONFIDANT 

Voiceless  thou  art  not.  Speak  thy  word  to  me ! — 
Forthrightness  and  strength  and  the  patient  ways 
Of  faith  when  stormy  seasons  bring  amaze 

And  make  the  blood  through  backward  gateways  flee. 

Prevent  my  soul's  recession!  —  Not  to  thee, 
O,  not  to  thee,  beneath  these  boughs  I  raise 
This  cry!     Thy  steadfastness  my  spirit  stays 

But  builds  not  all  my  hope,  thou  friendly  tree. 

Father  of  love  and  life,  take  thought  of  me 

These  fateful  days,  that  I  my  growth  may  grow 
Skyward  to  thee,  worldward  where  service  lies, 

Whether  blow  winds  of  cloudy  destiny, 

Or  heaven's  warm  arch  bend  close  and  low, 
Prefigured  in  my  love's  consenting  eyes. 


Sonnets  of  VII 

a  Lover  ,Tr       .     .  ,  ~  . 

Wear  inviolate  vesture,  O  my  soul, 

When  now  thou  enterest  thought's  removed  shrine. 

Thou  canst  not  be  alone  there;  'tis  no  longer  thine 
To  shut  the  door  and  keep  the  key's  control. 
Unshared,  thy  table's  daily  bread  and  bowl 

Had  grown  unsweet, —  wanting  the  mystic  sign 

That  makes  of  every  common  dish  a  meal  divine, 
The  morsel  that  love  shares  more  than  the  whole. 
That  this  dear  guest  may  stay  to  dwell  with  thee, 

Make  yet  more  fair  thy  house's  garniture. 

Her  wings  that  nestle  to  thy  happy  breast 
Must  grow  content,  stronger  by  flight  with  thee 

For  higher  heavens,  whence  higher  still  to  lure 
Thee  on  to  love's  eventual  haven,  rest. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


SOMETIME 

'"PHERE  is  a  ship  named  Sometime; 

*      Men  dream  of  it,  and  wait; 
One  on  the  shore,  impatient, 

One  at  the  household  gate; 
Thinking:   "  If  it  come  not  in  the  morn, 

Then  in  the  evening  it  may." 
But  one  I  knew,  not  thinking  of  ships, 

Worked  till  the  close  of  the  day, 
Lifting  his  eyes  at  evening-time, 

There  his  ship  at  anchor  lay. 

A    CAMEO 

SHE  bowed  her  head  above  a  book; 
I  saw  her  face  in  shade; 
The  beauty  of  her  tranquil  look 
The  book's  reflection  made. 

Her  hand  lay  white  upon  the  page, 
Her  hair,  dull  gold,  hung  low; 

Or  whether  bard  she  read,  or  sage, 
Little  I  cared  to  know. 

A  pleasant  picture,  purely  set, 
Its  mood  all  fair,  though  grave, 

The  virtue  of  an  amulet 
To  my  remembrance  gave. 


33 


AFTERNOON 

WHAT,    then,    that   winds   blow   chill  along  the 
shadowy  waste, 

The  sky  is  afternoon,  and  homeward  flock  the  birds, 
And  lonely  sound  my  loom-strokes  in  a  lonely  room  ? 
Perennial  burns  my  fire,  and  calm  and  pleasant-spaced 
My  day  was,  fair  with  color,  interwoven  words 
Of  friend  and  book;  so,  brave  and  cheerily  went  my 
loom. 

What,   then,   that,  day's  work  done,   a  lonely  supper 

waits, 

A  lonely  evening  lamp  when  all  is  done  ? 
The  faithful  firelight  warms  a  tender  opaline  gloom, 
Where  stands  my  yet  unfinished  web,  inwoven  with 

dates 

Of  purple,  buds  of  rose,  and  sky  of  blue,  and  sun 
Of  heaven' s  imperial  noon;  so,  cheerily  goes  my  loom  ? 

'Twere  easy  —  yes!  —  to  weep  because  the  thread 
Turns  from  the  pattern  here,  and  there,  and  here; 
But  I  laid  not  the  warp  that  works  my  weal  or  doom; 
The  woof  was  dyed  ere  I  could  know,  or  choose,  or 

dread. 

The  power  that  laid  the  varying  strands  is  ever  near 
And  measures  all;  so,  brave  and  cheerily  goes  my  loom. 


34 


A    MEMORY    OF   BEETHOVEN'S 
SONATA,  OPUS    27:1 

N.    V. 

A  FACE  impassioned  over  ivory  keys, 
An  open  window  and  a  saffron  sky; 
Roses  'gainst  the  dark  of  cedar-trees, 
A-rustle  with  belated  birds  the  house-wall  nigh; 
A  grave  contralto's  sudden  cry 
From  some  compelling  height  of  song; 
A  hush  of  voice,  a  slumbrous  throng 
Of  half-roused  chords,  that  fain, — 
Forlorn  with  wordless  joy  or  pain, — 
Would  seek  the  hand's  control, 
And  wake  at  last  in  one  exultant  whole 
Of  overmastering  song: 

A  roar  of  storm-swept  woods!      The  beat  of  waves, 
And  streaks  of  meager  moonlight  through  the  dark; 
Then  peace  upon  the  waters,  calm  in  ocean  caves, 
And  stir  of  early  morning  fields,  where  lark 
And  linnet  still  are  reticent  of  song, 
And  all  so  right  within  the  world  that  nothing  can  go 
wrong. 

If  the  blue  sky  would  ever  be  so  blue! 
If  the  hearts  of  men  would  ever  be  so  true 
As  now  they  seem! 

Now,  dawn  on  a  far  wide  plain,  and  a  slow  river*  s 

pace, 

And  rising  morning  winds  across  a  flowery  space, 
And — follow,  follow  to  the  mountain* s  rugged  base! 

Up,  up  a  stony  way  into  the  clear  and  high. 

The  heart  will  ache  so,  here,  to  think  that  men  must  die, 

When  all  so  beautiful  a  world  around  will  ever  lie. 

35 


A  Memory   O  Memory,  no  more,  no  more! 

The  hyacinthine  brow  bowed  long  ago  to  death. 
Still  are  the  ivory  keys;  forever  closed  the  door; 
The  rose  and  cedar,  mingled  in  a  breath, 
Are  shadows  mingled  on  the  wall; 
Year  after  year  the  rose  returns; 
With  sunset  lights  the  autumn  burns; 
Leaves  grow  old  and  fall, 
And  winter  stillness  quiets  all. 


LIFE   AND    DEATH 

TWO  angels,  clad  in  untouched  white, 

1     Met,  once,  upon  a  highway  near  the  sea. 

One  wore  a  smile  of  summer  light; 

The  other's  look  was  that  the  midnight  has 

When  stars  crowd  close  the  solemn  sky  — 

Tender,  sweet,  convincing. 

This,  a  golden  goblet,  shining  to  the  brim 

With  living  water,  pure  and  clear; 

And  he,  that  other,  held  a  chalice 

Dim  and  deep  and  empty, 

Save  for  one  half-clinging  drop. 

"  Whither  goest,  angel  ? "  said  the  smiling  one, 

While  yet  they  stood,  in  doubt,  apart. 

"  To  yonder  palace,  brother  sweet, 

Unto  the  queen.      And  whither  thou  ?  " 

"  Unto  the  prince,  her  son,  that  is  to  be." 

"  If  must  be,  hand  in  hand  we  go," 
Said  Life,  and  bowed  his  shining  head; 
"  It  must  be,  brother,  but  I  follow  thee, 
And,  lingering  by  the  door,  I  wait 
Till  thine  own  errand  is  fulfilled." 

So  Life  went  in;  and  Death  awaited  there, 
Then,  closely  following,  stood  beside  the  queen. 
The  other  pressed  him  back, — "Too  late!  "  he  cried, 
"It  is  too  late!  she  knew  not  what  she  did, 
And  snatched  my  goblet,  drinking  half." 


37 


Life  and     *  <  Yet  would  she  rather,  had  she  known, 

Death         Have  taken  mine,"  mused  Death. 

"Ay,  or  no,  I  cannot  tell,"  said  Life; 
"  For  may  the  prince  be  better  served 
With  half,  than  all  the  lotted  years, 
And  may  the  world  be  better  served 
With  half  a  life  this  mother  guides  — ' ' 
"Ay,  or  no,  we  cannot  tell,"  mused  Death. 

Then,  hand  in  hand,  they  left  the  hall, 

And  Sleep,  soft  trailing  through  the  chamber-door, 

Stooped  low  above  the  mother  queen, 

And  lapped  the  infant  prince  in  dreams. 


THE    RAINBOW 

AS  to  the  perfect  round,  ere  it  be  gone, 
My  thought  will  flash  that  wondrous  arc, 
By  sun  and  rain  inevitably  drawn 
Upon  the  opposing  distant  dark 
Of  cloudy  sky  or  thinnest  lawn 

Of  hovering  mist,  I  hark 
To  some  clear  voice  that,  like  the  dawn, 
Arises,  making  morning  in  the  mind. 

It  bids  me  find 

The  center  of  events  that  seem 
Irrelevant  as  a  dream, 
The  accidents  of  time  and  space; 
It  bids  me  never  trace 
The  pattern  of  myself  upon  a  life 

To  measure  what  may  be  its  worth, 
Nor  think  that,  since  I  see  no  strife, 

But  only  blue-sky  living,  joy  and  mirth, 
I  know  the  curve  that  sweeps  away 
Into  the  unfathomed  soul's  interior  day; 

It  bids  me  frame,  with  lofty  fear, 
More  purpose  into  day  and  year, 
Since  that  I  live  at  all  may  flame 
Into  a  sunrise  for  a  soul, 
Or  flare  into  a  sunset  of  eternal  dole. 

It  bids  me  draw 

An  arc  of  splendor  without  flaw, 

Of  faith  and  hope  and  love,  these  three, 

About  this  point,  this  life;  an  arc  to  be 

Full-rounded  in  eternity. 


39 


IN    BLANK    VERSE 


PALATIRE 

<<  PALATIRE," — a  name,   and  nothing  more  in 

word, 

Upon  a  leaning  gravestone  in  the  shade 
Falling  across  that  churchyard  by  the  wood, 
Where  lie  the  generations  of  my  race 
Who  held  this  land  when  living  was  a  war 
With  elemental  things.      I  knew  her  not 
By  any  hearsay  in  my  father's  house, 
And  he,  who,  oldest,  leaned  upon  his  staff 
To  hear  the  preacher  in  the  little  church 
On  quiet  summer  days,  but  shook  his  head 
And  answered,  when  I  asked,  "None  know!      None 
know!" 

Often  I  went,  when  shadows  slanted  long, 
Softening  the  white  and  gray  memorial  stones 
And  dimming  darkened  churchyard  tree  and  flower, 
Sat  near,  and  thought  of  unmourned  Palatire, 
And  brushed  away  the  swathing  grass  to  read 
Once  more  her  name  and  age:  just  "  Palatire," 
Born  such  a  time,  died  then, —  from  date  to  date 
But  seventeen  years  and  three  poor  barren  months, 
The  stormiest  of  the  winter  time. 

Alone 

Her  grave  was,  yet  near  by  the  crowded  row 
That  bore  my  own  ancestral  name  on  stones, 
Here  old  and  mossed,  there  carved  with  new  device 
From  unstained  marble.      Other  graves  as  old, 
As  low  and  sunken,  lay  in  groups  around, 
But  none  like  this,  alone. 


Palatire  As  once  I  sat 

In  that  still  mood  that  marks  the  end  of  day 
Upon  the  reverent  mind,  I  heard  the  sound 
Of  wheels  that  stopped  upon  the  graveled  way; 
But  turned  not,  sheltered  by  the  wall  of  hedge, 
Until  close  by  I  felt  the  fall  of  steps 
Deep  in  the  deep  long  grass,  and  saw, —  unmarked 
Because  they  noticed  not, —  an  aged  pair; 
She  leaned  upon  a  staff,  but  he,  erect 
And  stately,  led  her  by  the  hand  with  care 
That  meant  the  tenderest  love,  close  to  the  grave 
Whose  loneliness  so  much  had  moved  my  heart. 
"  This  is  the  place,  Salome;  and  here  she  lies 
Who  would  have  been  my  wife  ere  I  met  you 
Had  she  not  died  upon  that  winter  day 
That  else  had  seen  us  wed.      Look  up,  Salome, 
Dear  Heart!     Weep  not  for  seventy  years  ago." 

"  O  Heart,  kind  Heart,  I  weep  to  think  what  she, 
This  pale  sweet  Palatire,  has  missed  and  lost 
In  missing  life  and  losing  you, —  these  years, 
These  lovely  years  of  joy  and  grief  with  you. 
Had  she  no  kindred  that  she  lies  alone  ? ' ' 

"She  was  the  last  of  name  and  line,  and  turned 

In  grief  away  from  her  old  home  to  find 

Some  balm  in  western  lands  for  loss  and  dearth. 

One  happy  autumn  we  together  dwelt 

In  friendly  neighborhood,  and  then  we  found 

That  home  to  each  must  mean  a  home  for  both; 

And  then  she  died.      And  restless,  I  could  stay 

No  more  where  nothing  was  that  did  not  speak 

Of  loss.      Westward,  away  to  wild,  unbroken  wood 


I  went  for  change  medicinal  to  mind,  Palatire 

And,  hewing  out  from  forest  deeps  a  home 

Of  field  and  orchard,  caring  not  for  whom, 

I  found  at  last  the  peace  of  mind  and  heart 

That  patient  purpose  gives,  and  better  light 

Upon  the  ways  of  God  confirms. 

Years  passed, 

And  I  met  you,  whom  first  I  saw  because 
You  stepped  like  Palatire;  and  when  you  spoke 
Some  trick  of  voice  like  hers  awoke  the  thought 
That  yours  was  such  a  soul.      I  looked  with  eyes 
That  had  not  cared  to  see  a  woman's  face  and  saw 
A  clear  soul  look  from  eyes  as  clear,  and  marked 
The  slender  hand,  the  moss-dyed  gown,  the  coil 
Of  brown-black  hair  with  curlings  at  the  neck, 
And  went  and  walked  the  woods  and  thought  of  you, — 
Of  Palatire,  and  then, —  you  know  the  tale, 
For  I  have  loved  to  tell  it  oft  to  you, — 
How  I  loved  you  for  Palatire,  and  still 
Loved  both  the  more,  the  more  I  dwelt  with  you. 
The  story  of  our  life," — 

But  in  the  dusk 

They  passed;  I  heard  no  more  but  wheels 
That  crunched  the  graveled  path,  then  echoing  hoofs 
Receding  in  the  dark.      Nor  ever  knew  whence  came 
Nor  whither  went  these  lovers  of  the  days 
Of  olden  time. 

I  broke  a  trailing  branch 
Of  roses  from  the  hedge  and  in  the  dusk 
I  laid  it  on  the  grave  of  Palatire 
And  marveled  as  I  sought  my  woodland  trail 
Upon  the  gracious  tears  of  sad  Salome, 
Upon  the  love  of  seventy  years  ago, 
Alive  and  sweet,  unchanged  in  those  sweet  souls. 


THE    POINT    OF   VIEW 

THERE  rose  a  star;  heaven-circling  ways  it  kept, 
As  other  stars,  and  shone  to  men  as  they, 
Or  less,  or  more;  but  as  I  looked,  its  rays 
Concentered  on  the  darkened  truths  of  life, 
Upon  my  vision,  never  clear  and  whole, 
Full  flashed  with  whitest  light. 

"  But  therefore,  then, 

I  have  not  named  this  heavenly  star  the  sun 
For  all  men' s  lighting  ?  ' '      Nay,  but  yet  to  me, 
The  visual  angle  makes  that  star  the  sun. 

I  march  upon  this  parallel;  I  never  say 

How  shine  the  stars  from  that.      I  do  not  know. 

It  is  a  truth  of  awe  that  I  can  use 

The  stars  to  find  my  bearings  as  I  go; 

Of  joy,  that  other  eyes  from  other  points 

Find  theirs  by  whatso  stars  or  sun  they  choose. 


44 


A    SHEPHERD    OF    MEN 

"  1MOW  thank  the  Lord  for  this,''  said  Barasan, 

1  N   "Though  I  must  dwell  among  the  hills  and  fields 
And  feed  my  sheep,  while  other  men  in  tents 
May  take  their  ease;    though  I  must  wear  coarse  wool 
Nor  eat  except  that  I  may  live  and  serve, 
I  am  not,  therefore,  pent  in  mind,  nor  scant 
Of  soul,  in  want  of  visions.      You  forget 
I  have  the  stars;  they  speak  to  me  by  night 
And  march  in  white  processions  up  the  sky, 
While  I  look  on  and  name  my  joys  by  them. 

"And  you  forget:   I  have  a  friend  I  saw 

And  heard  —  but  never  spoke  to, —  once:   that  priest 

Who  dwells  above  among  the  rocks,  away 

Far  off,  half  up  that  mountain  blue;  his  light 

Gleams  down  of  nights  until  I  think  it  seems 

One  more  upon  my  strand  of  mercy-gifts, 

The  stars  he  dwells  companioned  of  no  less 

By  day  than  by  imperial  summer  nights. 

"I  do  not  know  him,  but  what  then  ?      I  know 
What  I  should  hope  to  be  if  I  were  he. 
I  saw  him  once  and  marked  what  kind  he  seemed: 
A  dark-browed  man,  and  large  of  frame  and  will; 
Steady  of  eye  and  thought;  he  might  have  led 
The  battle -lines  of  kings;  he  might  have  held 
The  reins  of  nations;  yet  he  chose  just  this, — 
To  lead  men's  souls  until  they  learn  to  go 
In  white  through  all  the  dust  and  moil  of  life, 
Then  on  to  larger  living,  better  ways. 
'  How  hath  he  done  it  ? '      I  have  wrought  this  out 
Upon  my  hills,  among  the  brooks  and  fields, 


45 


A  Shepherd      At  those  still  times  the  flocks  would  choose  to  rest; 

of  Men  The  sky,  the  soft  white  clouds  companioned  me; 

Yea,  Maracandan  solitudes  are  mine, 
And  no  man  hinders  that  I  think  my  thoughts. 

"  Thus  I  conceive  my  priest    —though  only  once 

I  saw  his  face,  and  heard  his  compelling  voice  — 

Did  choose  his  lot  and  make  it  holier  still 

As  he  himself  grew  on  to  larger  life : 

First,  there  was  struggle  in  his  soul;  for  that 

Some  touch  he  would  not  own  had  made  him  see 

His  will  were  evil  were  it  all  his  will. 

"  Long,  long  he  would  not  yield;  and  long  he  strove 

Beneath  the  stars,  beneath  the  blue  of  noon, 

To  prove  himself  his  own.      A  gentle  hand 

He  dared  not  thrust  away  lay  strong  on  his; 

And  in  his  heart  he  heard  a  voice  that  said, 

'  Thy  will  is  not  thine  own;  but  make  it  mine, 

And  then  it  shall  be.'      Still  did  Pharimond, — 

Thus  is  he  named, —  resist  and  look  away, 

And  strive  to  hide  the  tumult  in  his  soul 

From  his  own  soul. 

Then  on  a  day  there  came 

A  message  from  the  king:    '  Come,  lead  my  chiefs 
And  all  their  hosts.'      At  thought  of  conflict  flashed 
His  face,  his  eyes,  with  splendid  wrath  and  fire. 
The  Hand  withheld.      Yet  would  he  not  so  yield, 
But  fled  away  among  the  rocks  of  barren  hills 
And  took  no  food  nor  rested  many  days. 


"  At  last,  beneath  a  lonely  platan-tree,  A  Shepherd 

O'erweighed  by  his  sad  heart,  he  slept  in  peace.  of  Men 

As  in  a  dream,  he  saw  approaching  far 

Along  the  stony  vale  a  shining  troop, 

That  seemed  on  errands  faring  through  the  world; 

And  all  the  throng  passed  on,  while  one  came  near, 

Who  bore  a  golden  scroll,  a  pilgrim  staff; 

The  silver  mist  of  his  white  robe  swept  round 

Him  like  a  cloud,  enfolded  Pharimond 

Like  some  great  hour  of  peace;  the  Face  shone  down 

Upon  him  where  he  lay,  shone  through  him, —  soul, 

And  self,  and  body, —  melted  his  hard  will 

And  clarified  the  cloud  of  self,  till  cloud 

It  was  no  more. 

Then  he  was  left  alone; 
And  in  his  dream  the  staff  lay  by  his  side, 
The  scroll  lay  in  the  hand  of  Pharimond; 
And  in  the  dream  he  rose  and  read  the  scroll; 
But  what  he  read  I  cannot  tell,  nor  would, — 
Although  I  know, — for  he,  as  now  I  think, 
Would  tell  no  man. 

When  Pharimond  awoke  — 
You  must  believe !  —  there  lay  in  his  left  hand 
A  yellow  platan-leaf,  and  near  his  right 
A  stout  dry  branch  with  curling  bark  half-shed, 
That  fell  away  and  made  a  perfect  staff. 
He  stood  one  moment  there,  adjusted  thought 
And  life  to  some  new  impulse,  then  with  leaf 
And  staff  he  followed  through  the  vale  the  way 
His  dream  had  made  the  angels  go. 


A  Shepherd  Near  by 

of  Men  He  found  a  trickling  spring  and  drank  new  strength 

From  out  his  platan-leaf,  that  folded  deep 
Into  a  cup.      Ripe  berries  to  his  hand 
Thrust  out  on  branches  full.      Why,  once,  myself, 
I  found  them,  when  too  faint  to  think  't  was  strange! 

"  Haply  you  think  my  friend  mistakes  his  call 

That  lives  a  mountain  hermit,  far  remote  ? 

So  I,  if  to  himself  he  lived.      But  take 

That  path  which  leads  by  yonder  platan-tree, 

And  follow  by,  until  you  meet  him  there 

Upon  the  mountain  side.      Sit  one  hour  still 

And  hear  him  speak  of  other  worlds  than  this, — 

But  O,  of  this,  and  life  forever,  life 

Here  and  now,  and  of  duty,  heaven-decreed 

And  beautiful.      Hear  him  speak;   then 

Go  mark  what  you  must  be  to  other  men 

All  your  days  after.      Thus  he  lives  in  lives 

All  through  these  vales  and  hills;  in  barren  wastes, 

In  palaces  and  huts,  and  tented  fields, 

In  potency  of  life  and  thought,  infused 

In  soul  of  peasant,  soul  of  king. 

See,  now, 

My  flock  will  feed  along  the  evening's  edge 
Until  the  moon  looks  over  yonder  hill, 
And  I  must  follow  on  this  other  way. 
But  you  must  find  him.      Yonder  is  his  light." 


48 


BERYM'S    PARABLE 

THUS  Berym  to  his  mates,  among  the  sheep, 
About  the  hillside  folds  at  set  of  sun, 
Babbled  a  story  ere  he  slept  the  sleep 
The  weary  love: 

Three  swords  to  his  three  sons 
An  ancient  king  of  eastern  splendor  gave; 
Save  two,  each  hilt  all  other  hilts  outshone; 
Save  two,  each  blade  might  never  meet  and  match 
With  equal  edge,  and  those  in  brothers'  hands 
Were  turned  from  each. 

The  eldest  prince,  child-wise, 
And  eye-prudent,  so  precious  held  his  gift 
He  hid  it  in  a  box  of  carven  oak, 
Lapped  'round  with  nard  in  scarves  of  Maracand. 
The  second,  in  a  pleasure  play  of  arms 
Next  day,  lost  his  and  laughed  away  the  loss. 
From  nine  great  battles  conquering  came  the  third, 
The  youngest   prince,   whom  time,   nor  chance,   nor 

place 
Had  found  unguarded  of  his  father's  gift. 


49 


AS   IT    BEFELL 

PHIRAL  strode  homeward  in  the  early  dusk, 
A  sickle  on  his  arm.      Between  the  trees 
Along  the  wooded  path  lay  yellow  streaks 
Of  sunset.      A  little  streamlet  from  a  spring 
Loitered  among  the  cress  and  widened  there 
Where  herds  returning  stopped  to  drink. 

Onward 

He  passed  and  hardly  knew  he  saw  at  glance 
A  moth  of  dingy  wing  lie  sprawling  flat 
Upon  an  ox-track  pool.      Smiling  he  went, 
Thinking  of  her  he  loved:    "  O  tender  heart, 
And  gentle  hand  —  and  gentle  hand  ?     I  think 
I  see  her  now.      She  would  have  lifted  out 
The  little  moth  with  pitying  words." 

He  turned, 

And  stooping  found  the  half-unheeded  pool 
And  set  the  creature  on  a  hazel  twig, 
And  singing  crossed  the  meadow-land  below. 

Years,  but  scarcely  years,  went  by,  and  she 
Of  tender  heart  and  gentle  hands  was  now 
Fond  wife  to  him  and  mother  to  his  child. 
And  life  and  all  went  healthily  and  well. 

Now  in  that  land  the  king  was  sick  and  lay 
Slow  languishing.    "  Give  me,"  at  length,  he  cried,- 
As  sick  men  use,  wanting  they  know  not  what, — 
"  Give  me  to  eat  of  roasted  apples,  fruit 
Of  that  high  garden-tree  I  love." 


"  Yea,  lord,  As  It  Befell 

What  chanced  has  no  man  told  ?     A  blight  of  worms 
Fell  on  the  orchards  here  in  all  thy  realm, 
In  blossom-time.      But  four  days'  journey  brings 
From  Valore's  hills  the  fruit  thou  cravest  so. 
Royal  word  and  gift  discovering  out 
Of  all  thy  youth  the  swiftest,  him  shall  send." 

And  Phiral  was  the  swiftest;  him  they  found 

And  sped  in  double  hasce  to  serve  the  king. 

And  Phiral' s  wife  took  counsel  of  herself, 

Thinking  how  their  one  little  child  would  miss 

His  father's  face  and  weep  uncomforted. 

"  Why  should  it  be  so  long  ?      Four  days  and  nights 

Will  make  my  darling  ill,  and  all  for  what  ? 

One  tree  bears  apples  all  as  good  as  those 

Upon  another;   all's  the  merest  thought, 

If  you  but  will.      Too  far  is  Valore's  land. 

Turn  thou  aside  and  take  thy  way  to  Lorm 

And  get  thee  in  at  Barvan's  gate,  that  soon 

Thou  mayst  return;   the  better  for  the  king, 

For  thee,  and  me,  and  little  Svane.      O  haste!" 

Nor  Phiral  nor  his  wife  looked  far  before: 

Blind  love  unmixed  with  forethought  led  him;  her, 

The  thing  that  centered  in  the  moment's  need, 

Hers  or  her  child's. 

Phiral  took  the  hill  road, 

Then  turned  aside  and  came  to  Barvan's  gate, 
Beside  an  inland  lake,  weary  at  dawn  of  day ; 
But  all  unresting  till  his  errand's  end, 
Right  forth  he  set  with  what  he  came  to  seek, 
Wrapped  in  a  silken  scrip,  embroidered  thick 
With  mystic  dragons  and  a  golden  crest. 


As  It  Befell     Now  Bar  van  nursed  hate  against  the  king,  sought 
A  road  to  slay  him  by  bare  treachery; 
For  he  had  failed  in  arms  in  open  field 
Thrice,  yea,  four  times  failed,  in  even  battle-line; 
But  guileful  still  in  low  subjection  lived. 
Apples  he  gave,  ruddy,  and  gold,  and  ripe, 
And  in  their  heart  a  subtle  powder,  sweet 
And  deadly. 

Then  when  Phiral,  from  the  crest 
Of  Lorm's  last  highland,  saw  the  waning  day 
Glittering  on  the  king's  blue  towers  afar, 
He  fell  a-thirst,  seemed  to  himself  all  one 
As  dead,  but  resting  chewed  dry  wayside  leaves, 
Took  courage,  and  fared  on  across  the  plain 
Through  miles  of  trampled  dust.      Far  spent,  at  last, 
From  thirst  and  weariness,  and  weakness,  heart 
Gave  way  and  down  he  sank  upon  a  knoll 
Panting,  "Why  should  one  die  with  food  in  scrip  ?  " 
He  took  and  ate  of  Barvan's  gift,  and  rose 
With  thought  of  home  and  wife  and  little  Svane; 
He  rose  and  ran,  and  as  the  sun  went  down, 
Fell  at  the  city's  gate,  crying,  "  The  king! 
Save  him!"  with  a  great  bitter  cry  and  died. 
And  seeing  the  king's  crest  upon  the  scrip, 
Though  hardly  they  could  take  the  silken  bag 
From  out  his  grasp,  men  bore  it  quickly  on 
To  the  king's  palace,  to  the  ailing  king, 
And  he  died,  slain  by  that  subtlety, —  slain 
By  that  chance  along  with  Phiral.      Nor  court 
Nor  people  knew. 

Then  reigned  another  prince, 
And  years  went  by,  and  Phiral' s  son  was  grown 
A  mighty  man  at  arms;   the  king  took  joy 
Of  him  and  set  him  over  all  his  hosts, 


Made  him  friend,  close  comrade  of  his  repose,  As  It  Befell 

Counselor  to  his  throne  through  evil  days. 

It  chanced  there  was  a  knave  in  prince's  garb 

About  the  king, —  keeper  of  his  own  thoughts, 

Silent  and  cold-eyed,  observant  of  ear, 

Stealthy  of  spirit,  one  that  plotted  much 

In  crass  day-dreams  his  own  aggrandizement. 

But  ever  Svane  kept  to  the  simple  ways 

That  never  hinder  men  from  living  long  and  well, 

And  dwelt  untrammeled  in  his  own  first  home 

Where  still  his  mother,  mistress  of  his  heart, 

Lived  and  loved  for  him  —  how  else  ?  —  in  the  round 

Of  her  small  world,  each  day  as  it  arose. 

And  Svane  wrought  the  king's  will  with  sword  and 

word, 

And  all  the  people  were  at  peace  to  till 
Their  lands  and  tend  their  flocks,  or  make  their  mart 
Among  themselves,  by  land  and  sea.      But  Doure, 
The  knave-prince,  grumbled  in  his  palace  hall, 
Until  his  wife,  a  princess  wise  and  gentle,  said, 
"  Patience,  my  lord;  the  king  will  give  you  place  yet 
To  do  the  thing  you  would.     His  armies  lie 
Expectant  in  their  tents."      But  Doure' s  one  thought 
Was   "Svane,   Svane!       Ay,   'tis  ever  Svane,"   and 

sulked 
And  crept  away  to  think. 

A  young  moon's  arc 

Hung  low  among  the  yellow  stars, —  between 
The  purple  and  the  gray  that  meet  the  blue, 
Banding,  all  three,  the  early  evening  sky, — 
And  lighted  Svane  forth  and  back,  among 
His  garden  plots  and  arbored  paths  and  glades 
Of  scented  shrubs,  and  crossed  his  troubled  thought 
With  brief  cessation. 

53 


As  It  Befell  «  Time  to  tell  the  king  ? 

Ay,  now,  for  Doure  is  even  now —     But  if 
The  king  knew,  yea,  to-night,  Doure' s  head  would  fall, 
And  that  poor  princess  and  the  child,  his  son: 
My  mother  pleads  for  them:  that  Doure 
May  fail,  that  I  may  ward  his  treason,  save 
Him  alive,  and  never  tell  the  king  all; 
And  take  the  traitor  in  my  hands  and  hold 
His  waywardness  in  check  and  make  him  serve 
His  duty  to  the  king, —  and  keep  the  three  alive. 
'The  wife/  my  mother  weeps,  'the  little  child!' 
Yet  when  had  not  the  innocent  to  suffer 
If  those  they  love  are  guilty  ?     Doure  must  die!  " 

But  Svane's  mother,  all  awake,  rose  and  met 
Her  son,  took  him  full-armored  as  he  stood, 
And  set  him  by  her  bed  and  made  him  see 
And  feel  her  way:  less  haste  might  save  the  two 
That  else  would  die  with  Doure.      So  Svane's  mind 

turned, 

Saw  not  what  might  befall  between  and  failed 
Of  natural  tenor.      So  he  slept,  all  be, 
In  armor,  by  his  door,  and  not  at  peace. 

Now  whether  Doure' s  envy,  his  traitor  mind 
At  work  betimes,  despite  his  craven  heart, 
Drove  honest  sleep  away,  the  tale  tells  not, 
But  something  led  him  forth  to  walk  at  deep 
Of  night  between  the  dawn  and  that  dim  hour 
When  palest  stars  withdraw  and  leave  the  brightest 
Waning,  a  cold  wind  blows,  and  sleep  is  heaviest. 
Slinking  by  Svane's  garden,  even  to  his  door, 
There  he  found  the  sleeping  warrior, —  there 
Wounded  him  to  death  and  left  him  bare  words 
Enough  to  warn  the  king.      And  so  Svane  died; 
All  was  ended  for  Phiral  and  his  line. 

54 


Whether,  then,  as  some  think  it  ought  to  seem,  As  It  Befell 

By  reason  of  the  people's  wrath,  Doure  came 

To  death,  or  fled  beyond  the  western  plain 

To  Barvan's  high-walled  city,  certain  word 

Has  no  man  had.      But  the  knave  prince's  child 

In  later  years  fell  heir  to  Barvan's  crown, 

And  Lorm's  empire, —  scrolls  say  not  how, — 

Except  as  son  of  that  wise  princess,  wife 

To  Doure,  whose  record  ends  where  it  begins 

That  she  was  wise  and  gentle  all  her  days. 


55 


NEPHRAN    AND    THE    LAW 


T 


HUS  Nephran  made  discourse  unto  himself, 
Walking  at  eve  beneath  the  sycamores: 


"  Alarion  says  that  Nature  —  God  —  fails  not 
To  punish  evil-doing.      Ay,  a  priest, 
Alarion  speaks  as  a  priest  should  speak,  I  grant. 
Were  I  a  priest,  this  thing  upon  my  tongue 
Should  be  and  help  to  get  my  bread  as  well. 
But  I  am  young  and  strong  and  free  —  my  own, 
I  am  —  and  no  man  hinders.      Would  I,  think, 
Endure  that  freedom  should  be  hedged  about 
For  harping  like  to  this  ?     So,  look  at  me! 
A  score  of  times  have  I  done  thus, —  and  thus, — 
That  he  denominates  wrong, —  and  look  at  me! 
Who  is  so  strong?     Who  goes  so  far  and  never 
Tires  ?      Or  who  sleeps  as  I?     And  I  will  think 
Alarion  is  a  fool,  or  Nature  is,  or — " 


Nephran  bows  low  above  his  only  child, 

The  last  of  seven;  agonizing  seeks 

To  save  the  feeble  flame  of  life  alive; 

He  chafes  the  little  hand,  the  poor  lame  feet; 

He  lifts  the  helpless  head,  and  holds  the  cup 

To  lips  that  smile,  but,  drinking  not,  try, 

To  please  the  face  that  hangs  above, 

As  the  blue  eyes  widely  open,  glistening, 

Seem  to  say. 


THE    VISION    OF  CYRLEON 


YRLEON  walked  a  mountain  path  at  noon 

And  met  an  angel  by  a  flower-lit  bush, 
Azalean  white  and  gold.      Strength  oflimb 
And  learning's  pride  had  lifted  up  his  head 
To  think  no  fear;  the  heavenly  vision  fronting  him 
As  might  a  man  abashed  him  not. 

One  word 

The  angel  spoke,  or  seemed  to  speak,  and  lo, 
Cyrleon  saw  the  shine  of  cities  far, 
And  domes  and  towers,  and  lands  he  knew  not;  saw 
The  ships  that  went,  the  caravans  that  came, 
And  heard  the  noises  of  the  nations;  heard 
The  wail  of  one  bewildered  child,  forlorn 
In  a  forest;   the  flutter  of  a  leaf 
Upon  a  nameless  grave;  a  cricket's  song 
Down  in  the  plain  below  in  his  own  field. 
With  hand  and  smile  he  bade  Cyrleon  look 
Across  the  daylight  sky,  the  noonday  blue, 
And  lo,  the  sweep  of  worlds  innumerable, 
The  secrets  of  their  paths,  their  destiny, 
Their  doom. 

The  seraph  touched  a  glowing  flower, 
Azalean  white  and  gold,  and  straightway  came 
The  hidden  craft  of  wood  and  field  before 
Cyrleon'  s  eyes;  he  saw  the  shade-born  fern 
Erect  her  crozier,  the  moss  unwind  her  threads, 
The  leaf  grow  up,  the  rootlet  seek  the  dark; 
He  followed  to  its  cell  the  silken  mouse 
With  bead-round  eyes  and  stripes  of  brown;  he  marked 
The  vvoodbird's  weaving  skill,  the  grouse's  wiles 
When  she  would  hide  her  leaf-brown  brood 
To  save  herself  and  them;  he  counted  o'er 
The  convolutions  of  the  snail's  thin  house; 


57 


The  Vision     Nature  gave  up  beloved  secrets,  all 

of  Cyrleon       At  glance,  to  him. 

But  proud,  undaunted  still, 
Cyrleon  stood  and  eyed  the  angel's  guise, 
The  helmet  white,  the  shield  of  white,  the  vesture 
Like  the  light  of  dawn;  slow  gazed  and  wondered: 
Perceived  not  yet  that  heavenly  messenger 
On  heavenly  errand  fared;  far  less  perceived 
That  errand  was  to  him. 

So,  up  and  down 

Staring,  he  marked  a  gleaming  chain  that  held 
Beneath  the  white-sheathed  sword  a  casket  white 
And  wondrous,  such  as  mortal  thought  conceives 
Nor  makes  not.      Around  it  rayed  light  like  flame 
Of  midnight  stars.      Cyrleon  saw,  amazed, 
Impelled,  and  knew. 

The  angel  spake  no  word, 
But  looked  with  wistful  eyes  upon  the  man. 
"  Great  angel,  I  have  read  the  flower,  the  sky, — 
Have  read  the  world  before  me  at  thy  will 
Constrained,  yet  this  is  naught  if  thou  withhold 
To  show  me  all." 

The  angel  spake  not  yet; 
Stooping  he  plucked  away  from  clinging  earth 
A  pebble,  granite  black  and  white.      "  Read  this, 
Then  read  thy  heart/'  his  look,  his  gesture  said. 

Cyrleon  gazed  and  paled  but  nearer  stepped, 

With  flaming  eyes.     "  Show  me  the  casket,— show!" 

"  Nay,  if  I  show,  never  again  canst  thou 

Rejoice  in  thy  great  knowledge.      If  I  show, 

Thy  pride  will  die,  and  thou  upon  thyself 

Shalt  look  remorsefully,  as  man  sees  not 

Nor  yet  has  seen  himself.      Choose  and  abide. 


If  I  show  not,  thy  pride  will  live  until  the  end;  The  Vision 

Thine  eyes  will  be  withholden  not  to  see;  of  Cyrleon 

Thy  thought  shall  never  speak  what  thou  hast  been 
To  thy  sad  heart,  and  all  thy  life  shall  go 
As  it  has  gone,  treading  its  rough-shod  way 
Across  what  thou  dost  call  thyself,  thy  soul. 

Cyrleon,  trembling,  pale,  with  outstretched  hand, 
Strode  forward.      "  Lo,  I  choose;  now  show!" 

"  Abide 

And  learn.      It  is  thy  destiny.      Thy  doom 
Were  not  to  learn,  and  worse;  therefore,  I  came." 
Pitiful,  the  angel  gazed  into  his  eyes, 
Yet  stern  his  face,  his  form,  then  quickly  laid 
The  opened  casket  in  the  impassioned  hand: 
What  seemed  a  human  heart  lay  beating  there  — 
O  strange  illusion,  dreadful  semblance !      Could  it  be  ? 
Cyrleon' s  heart  of  hearts,  his  life  of  life. 
Wounded  it  was,  until  no  spot  for  wounds 
Had  space  thereon.      Forlorn  and  bruised  it  was, 
And  other  marks  of  dealing  furrowed  it  more  deep, 
Nameless  and  wordless,  the  deepest  and  the  worst; 
Cyrleon' s  quickened  soul  knew  how  and  why, 
With  sudden  revelation  striking  sharp 
Athwart  his  ignorance  and  pride  of  mind  and  self, 
That  was, —  O  piteous  thought!  —no  higher  self 
In  that  which  made  him  man,  not  woman,  born 
Than  that  dull  clown's  who  ploughed  his  field  of  corn, 
There  in  the  vale  below. 

"  Great  angel  of  my  God," 
He  cried,  down  falling  on  his  face  to  earth, 

"  Myself  I  did  not  know, —  that  self  the  beast  has, 

Except  as  thinking  what  it  would  must  rule, — 
As  being  Nature's  gospel,  therefore  right; 


59 


The  Vision     Excepting  as  the  world's  way  taught,  and  self, 
of  Cyrleon       Complacent,  followed  on  unthinking.      Yet,  at  worst, 
I  numbed  my  thought.      I  would  not  see,  not  know. 
O  why,  if  arrogant  I  thought  I  knew, 
Was  light  withheld  ?     And  why  silent  they 
To  whom  vocation  was  to  speak,  give  light  ? 
That  friend,  from  his  high  vantage  ground  of  love? 
That  priest  ?     Sanction  most  they  had.      Could  it  be 
That  they,  even  they,  unto  themselves  the  truth 
Obscured  ?     Where  was  the  light  my  father  had  ? 
Why  went  my  mother  to  her  grave  and  made 
No  sign  to  me  ?     The  soul  has  highest  right 
To  knowledge  of  its  dwelling-place.      O  why — " 

"  Hast  thou  been  blind  to  all  that  lies  around  ? 

Wherefore  has  that  proud  mind  of  thine  not  wrought 

Out  wisdom  for  thyself  and  thine,  as  for 

The  creatures  dumb  that  serve  thy  land  and  thee? 

How  couldst  thou  guide  for  good  to  thee  and  thine 

Thy  field-beasts'  lives  and  bring  to  better  height 

Their  welfare  so,  by  ever  taking  thought, 

Yet  miss  the  thought  that  law  of  life  is  one 

In  beast  and  man  ?     In  what  mean  cavern  lurks 

Thy  soul  ?      On  what  low  levels  battens  all 

Thy  thought  of  life?     Look  up,  and  forth,  and  know; 

Look  in  and  verify.      Live  where  the  Lord 

That  made  thee  set  thee  lines  to  find  the  highest  good; 

And  know  forever  that  if  thou  wouldst  love 

And  fitly  live,  thou  in  a  Siege  Perilous 

Must  ever  sit,  ever  lose  thyself 

To  find  thyself.      Know  this,  then  thou  shalt  know." 


60 


Then  ceased  the  voice;  the  vision  faded,  passed,  The   Vision 

Ere  yet  Cyrleon's  heart  could  make  its  cry  of  Cyrleon 

Or  give  him  strength  to  lift  his  fallen  face. 
"  Angel,"  he  cried  in  agony,  "  O  come 
To  me  again!     Say  if  the  wounds  will  heal. " 

No  voice  came  back;  from  spaces  blue  and  bright 

Above  the  mountain,  slow  winds  breathed  and  fanned 

The  white  azalea  flowering  to  its  fall. 

And  all  was  still  upon  the  mountain-side 

Till  set  of  sun,  except  Cyrleon's  thought 

That  moved  through  rounds  of  grief,  through  gyres 

Of  shame  and  wrath  alternate,  comforting 

In  naught.      But  at  early  star-time  a  strength 

Returned  to  take  him  home  to  Ara  there. 

So  fell  he  at  her  knees  abashed,  and  weak, 
And  wordless,  till  his  grief  had  spent  itself. 
Then  all  his  tale  he  told,  her  tender  hand 
Upon  his  head,  comforting,  and  her  tears 
Falling,  falling.      After,  she  pondered  much 
This  vision  of  Sir  Galahad,  the  knight 
Blameless  of  Arthur's  Table  Round  of  old. 


61 


IN   THE    GARDEN 

ONCE  I  lay  dozing  on  a  summer  day 
Beneath  an  oak  around  whose  shadows  swept 
The  garden  paths  my  neighbor  owns  for  me, 
A  "  Phaedo  "  fallen  from  my  drowsy  hand, 
And  lying  open  on  the  clipped  cool  grass. 
From  daughters  of  his  house,  two  fairy  girls 
Whose  infant  daring  makes  their  ways  a  joy 
To  childless  men  like  me,  I  heard, —  or  dreamed 
I  heard, —  much  cunning  wisdom  there  in  this: 

"Now,  Am'ranth,  look!     This  is  a  golden  dish — " 

(She  showed  an  acorn's  empty  grizzled  cup)  — 

"  Like  that  we  read  of  in  the  book  at  home 

About  the  king's  great  dinner  in  the  hall; 

And  I  will  bring  us  honey  from  the  rose, 

The  red  rose  by  the  hedge, —  that  is  the  best, — 

A  golden  dish  for  you,  and  one  for  me." 

And  then  the  talking  fairy  tiptoe  stood 

To  spill  its  dewdrops  in  her  acorn-cup. 

Thus  led  to  fairy-land,  spoke  in  its  lore 

The  other  little  maid  and  turned  and  laughed: 

"And  I  will  get  the  bread,  white  bread  and  sweet, 

Upon  some  pretty  plates  for  you  and  me." 

(Petals  white,  I  saw,  of  roses,  laid  in  heaps 

On  round  nasturtium  leaves  of  tender  green.) 

"  This  book," — the  honey  damsel  thus  went  on, — 
"  'Tis  not  a  pretty  book,  he  will  not  care; 
This  book  will  make  a  table  wide  enough." 
And  here  she  spread  her  fairy  meal  of  bread, 
And  set  her  bowls  of  honey  on  the  words, — 


62 


His  very  words,  O  Plato, —  his  who  drank  In  the 

The  hemlock!     But  on  I  drowsed  to  hear  Garden 

The  feast  proceed,  half-minded,  too,  to  join; 
Yet,  fearing  I  might  break  the  lovely  spell 
And  turn  their  honey  back  to  dew,  I  slept 
With  eyelids  circumspect. 

"  That  hollyhock 

Shall  be  the  tall  man  with  the  sword  that  stands 
Behind  the  king;  I  am  the  king,  Am'ranth, 
And  you  may  be  the  queen." 

"  You  have  no  crown, 
Ellice;  how  can  you  be  a  king  at  all?" 

"  Well,  I  can  make  one  of  this  white  bell-vine, 
And  here  is  one  for  you;  now  let  us  eat." 
But  lo,  the  wind  had  spilt  their  honey  on  my  book, 
And  their  ambrosial  bread  about  the  grass. 

And  so  they  gayly  laughed  and  said,  "  Let 's  play 
Some  other  thing,"  and  ran  away.      And  now 
I  hear  their  laughter,  sweeter  than  the  brook 
That  echoes  with  it  from  the  garden  trees. 


GRATIAN    BY    THE    FOUNTAIN 

"  WEA,  I  am  that  Gratian;  and  I  stood  by 

I     And  saw,  as  all  the  cohort,  there  among 
The  olive  trees,  where  he,  the  Man, —  they  said 
He  was  a  Galilean, —  came  fearless  forth. 
And  I  fell  prostrate,  face  to  ground — 'From  awe?' 
I  know  not,  yet  I  know  I  could,  not  choose, — 
They  could  not  choose.      My  brother  was  the  chief; 
He  says  the  Man  was  else  a  wizard,  or  a  god, 
For  he,  my  brother,  fell,  the  strongest  man 
In  Cassar's  guard.      A  Jew  there  was  that  stood 
With  us,  and  nearest  me,  there  in  the  press; — 
'T  was  he  that  led  us  to  the  place.      I  heard 
Him  curse  and  felt  his  breath  across  my  cheek 
And  drew  away  the  hand  his  mantle  touched. 
Next  day,  I  saw  a  withered  tree  with  leaves 
Heart-shaped  that  hung  like  clots  of  blood;  they  said 
That  black-browed  man  of  wrath  hung  dead  upon  it 
Before  the  dreadful  hour  which  put  the  sun  out 
And  covered  all  the  world  with  darkness  chilly 
As  the  grave's  mould  and  terrible  as  death. 
I  know  not,  but  I  saw  its  leaves  all  dead 
That  were  before  so  tender  with  the  glow  of  spring. 

"  '  That  darkness  was  ?'      Ay,  so,  that  darkness  was. 

(Sit  still,  thou  restless  child  beside  the  fount. 

Crowd  not  my  feet,  young  Varus,  into  shade; 

I  like  the  sunshine  better  now  than  thou 

Canst  like  the  wrestling  games  at  school  at  play, 

Or  sight  of  lithe  long  tigers  in  the  dens 

Along  the  circus  walls. —  Run,  Lelia  dear, 

And  bring  me  figs  from  that  low-branching  tree 

Thou  knowest  I  love, —  the  yellow,  not  the  blue, — 


And  hasten  ere  I  tell  the  tale  of  wolves  Gratian  by 

That  dwell  among  Carrara's  hills.)  the  Fountain 

<  Didst  see 

Him  near  ?'      Ay,  so;  it  fell  to  me  that  day 
To  stand  and  watch;  and  with  the  rabble  crowd 
Of  raging  Jews  I  saw  that  Man  who  spoke 
No  single  word,  but  looked — he  looked  a  god 
That  had  no  fear  of  men!     And  yet  as  one 
Who  could  have  wept  for  men.      They  buried  him 
When  he  was  dead. —  Nay,  ask  me  not, —  dead,  dead, 
He  was,  I  say;  I  saw  them  take  him  down. 
Shaken  with  the  rocking  earth  was  all  around, 
There  in  the  dark  when  he  gave  up  his  breath 
And  died.      And  I  was  one  who  watched  at  night 
Beside  his  tomb.      O,  what  I  saw  and  heard — 
Let  me  tell  this: 

I  know  not  if  the  gods 

We  serve  in  Rome  be  gods;  them  have  I  seen 
In  no  time  of  my  life;  when  I  have  called 
At  sorest  need,  none  seemed  to  answer;  thrice 
In  battle  was  I  hurt,  as  'twere  to  death; 
And  once  by  robbers  was  I  set  upon 
In  arms  with  two  who  watched  a  road  with  me. 
Left  for  dead  we  were,  all  three;  Varus  breathed 
Enough  to  say,  'Live,  Gratian;   kill  with  my  spear 
That  Captain  of  the  thieves;  'tis  Barrabas;  he 
That  slew  my  father;   'tis  my  father's  spear.' 
He  died,  but  Sextus  never  spoke;  all  three 
Were  soldiers  of  the  guard;  they  two  were  dead, 
And  I  lay  fever-smitten  with  my  wounds 
A  month  ere  I  could  speak  to  tell  our  tale. 
Then  in  that  city  times  of  tumult  rose, 
And  when  I  walked  the  streets  again,  a  storm 
Of  trouble  swept  Judea's  world;  but  Rome 


Gratian  by        Was  mistress;   Rome  was  power  by  shore  and  sea. 

the  Fountain     But  everywhere  the  Jews  were  many  minds, 
Mostly  evil  toward  our  gods;  unagreed 
As  touching  theirs,  and  swayed  among  themselves, 
Torn  by  factions,  bitter  even  to  death 
And  prison  walls. 

The  Man  whose  tale  you  seek? 
Him  I  knew  at  Nazareth;  he  made  a  chest  for  me 
Of  cedar  wood, — a  boy,  there,  in  the  shop 
Upon  a  certain  narrow  street  that  crept 
Thus,  and  thus,  toward  the  hills  as  'twere  the  way 
The  shepherds  take.      Some  said  the  Boy  grew  up 
A  trifling  man  that  went  about  among 
"  The  country  places  idly  babbling  words 
Of  strange  import  to  gaping  crowds, — strange  words 
Of  what  he  most  averred  he  was;  some  said     - 
He  cured  the  sick,  ay,  raised  the  dead.      I  met 
One  man  who  showed  both  arms  and  hands  as  whole 
As  yours, — a  common  man  I  once  had  known 
With  withered,  dead  right  arm;  but  he  was  scorned 
By  his  own  people  if  he  said  't  was  so. 
Ah,  well,  'tis  hard  to  know  the  truth,  I  find, 
Even  when  you  see  and  hear;  but  none  shall  wrest 
From  me  these  things  I  know,  because  I  saw 
With  open  eye.      What  I  do  know,  I  know. 
And  so  men  say  of  me, —  *  Ay,  Gratian  knows 
What  Gratian  says  he  knows.'    Well,  then,  believe, — 
You  may  believe, — these  other  marvels  that  I  tell: 

"  Yes,  when  he  died  upon  the  cross,  the  sun 
Was  darkened  and  the  earth  trembled;  some  say 
That  greater  wonders  were,  for  from  their  graves 
The  dead  came  forth  and  walked  the  streets  and  praised 
The  living  God.      'Twas  dark,  the  earth  did  shake; 
These  things  I  felt;  but  those  I  know  not  of. 


66 


Aulus,  my  centurion,  was  afraid;  he  cried,  Gratian  by 

<  This  was,  this  was,  the  son  of  God!'   We  watched       the  Fountain 

Together  at  the  tomb;  we  saw  the  stone  rolled  back, 

But  who  came  forth,  or  what,  we  saw  not, — no, — 

For  we  were  blinded,  thrown  to  earth  by  light, — 

A  blaze  of  wondrous  light, — and  terrors  shook 

Our  hearts  till  we  were  near  to  death;  for  hours 

We  spoke  no  word, — were  dumb  as  are  the  dead. 

There  was  a  man,  a  little  hawk-faced  man 

With  piercing  eyes,  who  held  a  thumb-pinched  coin 

Beneath  the  face  of  Him  they  killed,  and  cried, 

'  To  Caesar,  thou  hast  said !     So  shall  it  be, 

Thou  blasphemer.'      And  there  was  one  who  mocked 

With  bitter  laugh, — O,  none  showed  pity, — none! 

But  most  I  thought, — and  still  that  thought  will  come 

At  night  when  I  am  waked  by  dream  of  Him, — 

He  was  a  god,  and  I  to  Him  beholden  am; 

And  glad  the  feeling  is,  for  surely,  then, 

If  there  be  gods  have  I  seen  one;  and  life 

Must  still  go  on  wherever  He  may  be. 

Ay,  so  I  will  believe,  I  will  believe." 


THE    ROMANCE    OF   A    CLOD 

"  T    SEND   you   here," — with   his    own    hand    he 

1  wrote, — 

"  From    this    far    land    wherein   I  journey   with    my 

knights, 

A  golden  gift.      Care  for  it,  I  pray  you,  Sweet, 
With  that  same  love  you  wait  my  coming  hence." 

Then  to  her  inmost  secret  room  the  Queen 

Rose-red  with  joy,  yet  stately,  as  a  queen 

Befitted,  went  that  none  might  see  her  heart; 

Unlaced  the  silken  wrap  and  on  the  seal 

Let  fond  eyes  rest,  ere  she  the  gift  would  see, 

The  open  box  of  jeweled  gold;  and  lo, 

A  lump  of  earth,  a  dry,  unyielding  clod, 

And  nothing  more!     A  far-brought  gift,  a  king's 

Unto  his  queen!     A  clod 'of  earth  —  a  queen! 

Pale  grew  the  queen,  and  reddening  wrathfully 
She  wept,  sweeping  aside  her  falling  hair 
That  dared  its  gold  against  her  girdle's  gold 
At  lowest  length  let  down. 

"  Some  evil  tongue 

Hath  slandered  me.      And  now  he  loves  me  not; 
Alas,  what  must  I  do  ?     O  lover  —  king, 
My  heart  is  true  to  you, — is  true  to  you." 
Her  tears  fell  fast  upon  the  hateful  clod, 
That  yet  was  dear  that  he  had  sent  it, 
Though,  indeed,  in  hate. 

With  face  tear-dimmed, 

She  pondered  long,  and  then  in  twilight's  dusk, 
A  sad  white  shadow,  sought  the  garden  dear, 
That  one  fair  spot  of  his  and  hers  where  none 
Dare  come,  and  near  a  willow-pool  she  stooped 


68 


And  hid  it  in  the  earth  with  tears;  with  tears  The  Romance 

That  might  have  crumbled  kinder  clods,  not  this.  of  a  Clod 

And  thus,  the  insult  hid,  she  lived,  nor  spoke 
To  any  of  her  grief,  till  he  should  come. 

And  on  a  day  of  wide  blue  sky,  and  air 
Like  inspiration,  came  the  herald  of  the  king, 
The  king  himself,  in  cloth  of  gold  and  pearl, 
And  blue;   a  crowd  of  noble  knights  on  steeds 
With  white  manes  lifting,  falling  like  the  mists 
Of  some  white  morning. 

Down  impetuous, 
Down  sprang   the   king   and  clasped    the   queen  {nor 

marked 

Her  stately  coldness,  but  with  joy  led  on 
And  said,  "  My  love,  my  only  love,  now  show 
How  thou  hast  kept  my  gift.    By  this,"  he  laughed, 
In  over-joy,  "it  must  be  like  my  queen, 
In  gold  and  white,  yet  not  so  sweet  and  fair. 
It  shall  my  omen  be,  of  love,  of  life  with  thee, 
And  peace  with  all  the  world." 

Tumult  of  soul 

The  queen's  faint  heart  made  mute,  while  she  led  on, 
She  scarce  knew  how  or  why,  to  where  it  lay, 
The  hateful  gift  that  made  her  grief.      Behold 
A  regal  flower  of  gold  and  white,  of  white  and  gold 
With  perfumed  presence  wide,  above  the  grave 
Her  hands  had  made  in  wrath  of  tears  and  shame! 

"O  love,"  she  cried,  "I  did  not  understand ! 
I  did  not  understand !     And  I  have  wronged 
In  thought, —  O,  not  in  heart,  my  king,  for  still 
I  loved  you."      On  his  breast  she  wept  the  tale 
Until  he  lifted  up  her  sorrowing  face 
Into  the  tender  light  of  his  own  smile. 


69 


The  Romance    Along  by  marble  shapes  at  dusk  they  passed 
of  a  Clod  Through  garden  lanes  that  led  them  to  the  court 

Where  brave  and  beautiful  awaited  them 
With  joyful  homage. 

But  nor  marble  shape 

Nor  noble  knight  nor  dame  could  touch  the  heart 
With  beauty  like  to  theirs.      A  lily  lay 
In  white  and  gold  upon  her  breast;  her  hand 
Upon  his  arm;  a  glory  as  of  light 
From  some  supernal  goodness  in  his  face 
Shone  full  before  them  all. 

And  yet  the  queen 

At  soul  of  all  her  joy  bore  one  sad  thought, 
"I  did  not  understand!     Ah,  woe  is  mine 
That  I  must  say,  <  I  did  not  understand  ' 
When  love  was  speaking. " 


A    PARABLE  OF   APPLES 

A  YOUTH  named  Jair,  wise  and  strong  and  proud, 
Yet  full  of  cynic  judgment  of  his  kind, 
With  scrip  and  geologic  hammer,  climbed 
Into  the  mountains  on  a  summer  day, 
Away  from  college  and  the  busy  town. 
With  scrap  of  eocene,  and  speckled  boulder,  gray, 
And  garnet-veined,  with  shell  and  geode  round, 
He  felt  his  shoulder  weighed,  and  so  began 
To  heed  the  tale  more  recent, —  not  less  true, — 
Of  hunger,  heat,  and  thirst,  himself  exampled. 

Then  opportune  he  came  upon  a  farm 
Encircled  in  a  gracious  mountain  vale 
By  field,  and  wood,  and  stream,  and  orchard  fair: 
One  tree,  with  golden  apples,  one  side  blushed, 
Seductive  boughs  hung  out  above  his  head; 
He  plucked  and  cut  the  fairest;   black  and  dead 
It  opened  on  his  sight.      A  second  —  Ah! 
His  shuddering  hand  a  hateful  worm  had  cleft; 
A  third,  dead  ripe  and  hollow,  filled  with  ants. 
No  more  he  plucked;  impatient,  sore,  he  turned 
And  swiftly  sought  the  farmhouse  on  the  hill. 

The  farmer  resting  in  his  noonday  shade 

A  cordial  welcome  gave  and  smiling  spoke 

In  fond  and  boasting  words  of  crop  in  field, 

On  hills,  and  garden;   of  orchard, — "  Betty,  wife, 

The  dish  of  Blushes  from  the  porch. —  Now,  look," 

He  said,  "  the  very  best  that  grows  on  tree; 

Fill  up  your  pockets,  lad;    they  're  juicy,  fine, 

For  days  like  this.      Nor  mildew  marks  this  tree, 

Nor  worm,  nor  spot. 


A  Parable  Why,  now,  I  wonder,  boy, 

of  Apples       You  did  not  help  yourself  along  the  road; 
I  should  not  grudge." 

He  smiled,  "Your  boasted  tree, 
To  me  inhospitable,  gave  three  times 
But  worthless  fruit,  and  so  I  judged  the  whole. ' ' 

"Why,    listen!      Betty!      Hear'st     thou   that?"    he 

laughed; 

"  He  says  our  famous  tree  deceived  him  thrice, 
And  so  he  would  no  more  of  it,  no  more, 
Because  just   three    were    bad, — just    three."      Low 

laughed 
The  farmer,  fanning  with  his  braided  hat. 

"  So  have  I  judged  my  fellow-men,"  mused  Jair, 
Along  the  mountain  road.      "  So  have  I  missed 
The  essential  mark  and  hit  one  lower  with  pains 
Not  wasted  had  my  arrow  missed  a  star." 


72 


AN   INVITATION 

THE    MARRIED    LOVERS    TO    A    FRIEND 


OME,  O  friend  of  Both,  and  see  our  home! 

A  cottage  neighbored  by  a  friendly  brook 
That  sings,  or  sings  not,  as  we  choose  to  hear, 
But  winds  its  own  sweet  way  among  our  trees, 
And,  meditating,  musical,  wanders  joyously 
Below  into  the  open  wood  beyond, 
Alert  and  singing  on  through  unknown  ways 
To  seek  —  but  not  to  find!  —  another  home 
As  dear. 

We  two,  —  O  summer  sweet  and  long! 
We  two  dwell  there,  whom  oft  the  early  stars 
Find  walking  through  the  flowery  garden  ways, 
Silent  with  joy,  or  gay  with  tranquil  speech; 
Or  yet  they  find  us  on  the  vine-woven  porch 
Listening  to  the  streamlet  drop  into  the  wood 
To  wake  the  troops  of  echoes  there  asleep 
And  chase  their  music  to  our  ears. 

We  two 

Beside  the  friendly  stream  live  such  a  life 
And  know  what  silent  thoughts  move  each  to  joy 
When  wakening  orchards  blossom  up  the  hills, 
And  sweeten  all  the  May-time  morning  airs; 
When  warmer  glows  of  summer  paint  the  skies; 
When  apples  drop,  red-ripe,  among  the  grass 
Through  all  the  silence  of  the  autumn  nights; 
When,  all  leaf-strewn,  our  wood  is  gray  and  still, 
And  faded  is  the  grass  beneath  the  snow; 
Thus  our  two  lives  together  run  love'  s  perfect  way. 

Enter  our  little  home,  O  Friend  of  Both, 
Its  dearness  let  us  share  to-day  with  you; 


73 


An  Invitation    And  take  into  your  thought  of  us  its  peace, 
Its  humble  harmony  and  beauty  take, 
Its  books,  and  flowers,  and  pictures,  dear  and  few. 

Come  touch  this  thing  of  music  till  it  sings 
Of  light  that  never  fades  away,  and  joy 
That  grows  far  down  among  the  roots  of  life. 
Or  by  this  window  sit  and  see  how  near 
We  hearken  Nature,  who  can  come  up  close 
To  overlook  what  life  we  live,  day  in, 
Day  out,  and  praise,  or  chide,  or  smile. 

These  grapes, 

Pale  red,  and  lucent  green,  and  purple-black, 
The  hand  of  Rosamund  hath  intertwined 
With  leaves  for  you;  this  perfect  peach  of  gold 
Among  the  topmost  boughs  I  sought  for  you; 
This  branch  of  amber  plums,  the  bloom  on  yet, 
All  these  are  morning  thoughts  of  you;  her  thoughts 
And  mine,  for  you,  O  first  of  friends  to  us, 
Whose  hand  laid  on  our  growing  souls  and  hearts 
A  shaping  love  and  steadying  sympathy; 
With  infinite  expenditure  of  faith 
That  draws  its  hope  from  memories  unnamed, 
Whose  source  lies  deep  among  the  years  long  gone, 
We  know  it  now!  you  gave  us  this  great  gift — 
(Ofttimes  misread,  or  half-conceived,  half-heeded,)  — 
Your  inner  life,  the  closed-up  volume  of  your  heart. 

Nay,  we  have  seen  and  known,  when  we  half  talked 

Within  the  soul's  most  inner  shrine,  how  you 

Secretly  did  lift  us  toward  a  star 

Long  risen  to  your  horizon,  but  yet,  not  yet 

To  ours;  and,  thinly  veiled,  your  life's  ideal 

Still  walks  beside  you  guiding  us; — and  ours 

That  shall  be,  so  are  yours,  and  blessed  forevermore. 


74 


ULAN,    THE    STONE-CUTTER 

.      .      In  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  garden  cool, 
And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool." — E.  R.  Sill. 

OF  men  much  praise 
Wrought  serf  Ulan  all  his  days, 
Much  marble  praise; 

Year  after  year 

Cut  and  carved  without  a  peer 
To  love  or  fear. 

At  set  of  sun 
On  a  day  full  well  begun 
His  work  was  done. 

Of  Ulan,  then, 

Words  were  writ,  a  scanty  ten, 
By  hurried  pen: 

"Serf  Ulan 's  dead; 
Olar's  wisest  hand,  and  head, 
And  heart,"  they  said. 

Then  Olar  came, 
Olar,  prince  and  lord  of  fame 
And  spoke  his  name: 

"This  Ulan,  chiefs, 
Dwelt  in  strange  and  bright  beliefs 
And  had  great  griefs. 

"  From  griefs  he  rose, 
Just  as,  when  a  tempest  blows, 
And  ruin  sows, 


75 


Ulan,  the  "  Some  faint  sweet  flower 

Stone-Cutter  Opens  in  the  calm  first  hour 

After  its  power. 

"  In  what  he  sang 
Praise  of  some  far  splendor  rang, 
To  hammer's  clang. 

"  My  windows  know 
Gardened  Chiarno's  quarries  low 
And  current  slow; 

' '  From  dawn  to  dark 
I  can  count  the  strokes  and  mark 
The  quick  flint  spark 

"  When  hammers  fall; 
Toils  there  many  and  many  a  thrall; 
I  know  them  all. 

"  Pavilioned  here 
Crowds  of  noble  chiefs  and  dear 
Bear  shield  and  spear; 

"  And,  yea,  we  know 
Prince  and  knight  less  noble  show 
Than  Ulan  low; 

"  For,  many  a  year, 
You  and  I  had  wasted  here 
In  sloth's  career; 

"  You  mind  it  well, 

Time  my  jester's  cap  and  bell 

Had  lost  their  spell; 


76 


"How  all  his  mirth  Ulan,  the 

Dead  and  ghastly  was,  and  earth  Stone- Cutter 

Seemed  nothing  worth; 

"  How,  many  an  hour, 
Sulked  I  in  my  chambered  tower 
Distraught  and  sour; 

"  How  in  this  plight, 

One  day,  Ulan's  stroke  of  might 

Flashed  back  the  light. 

"  His  blow  on  stone 
Greater  was  than  he  had  known; 
It  struck  a  throne. 

"  Rejoiced,  I  cried, — 
Hope  of  pleasure  yet  untried 
Then  first  descried, — 

"  '  Now  send  and  bring 
Ulan;  he  shall  know  the  thing 
To  please  a  king.' 

"  Then  under  stress 

Ulan  stood  in  motley  dress, — 

A  man,  no  less !  — 

"I,  on  the  throne, — 
Fool,  I  was  to  all  minds  known 
Except  my  own, — 

"When  Ulan's  eyes 
There  met  mine  with  sad  surprise 
And  half  surmise, 


77 


Ulan,  the  "  And  bravely  plead, 

Stone-Cutter  <  Make  for  us  a  prayer,'  I  said; 

He  bowed  his  head. 

— <  Ay,  it  is  meet 
Olar  weeps  now  at  thy  feet, 
Thou  soul  most  sweet ! ' 

"  Convicted  fool, 
Shamed,  I  found  a  bitter  school 
In  garden  cool. 

"  You  know  how  light 
Bursting  from  that  prayer  of  might 
Did  clear  our  sight. 

"  Our  sin  confessed, 
Life,  it  taught,  was  not  a  jest; 
Mere  joy  its  quest; 

"  We  saw  life,  then, 
Forward  move  before  our  ken, 
As  from  a  den, 

"  To  some  wide  ground 
Rimmed  with  broadening  blue  and  bound 
By  fair  hills  'round. 

"  And  prince  and  man 
Learned  then  how  to  search  and  scan 
His  life's  whole  plan. 

"Thereby  we  earned 

Wisdom,  till  the  world  discerned 

What  we  had  learned. 


"  By  me  led  on,  Ulan,  the 

Foes  you  conquered,  peace  you  won,  Stone-Cutter 

And  wars  were  done. 

"And  praises  free, 

Knights  and  men,  for  this  should  be, — 
But  not  to  me. 

"  These  good  new  ways 
Ulan  wrought  in  our  bad  days; 
To  him  the  praise. " 


Then  Ulan's  head 
Low  they  laid,  and  chanting  said, 
With  solemn  tread, 

And  sad  and  slow, 

'  *  Prince  and  lord  from  serf  we  know, 
When  trumpets  blow; 

"  The  man-king  true, 
Blindly  missed  we  never  knew; 
Ah,  late  to  rue! 

"  This  is  his  hour! 

Lay  him  where  the  great  king's  tower 
Shadows  the  flower 

"  Of  race  and  earth. 
Sing,  that  deathless  love  and  worth 
Through  him  had  birth 

"  In  our  dull  souls; 

Sing,  that  while  Chiarno  rolls 

By  deeps  and  shoals 


79 


Ulan,  the  <<  To  reach  the  strand, 

Stone- Cutter  Seek  we  still  to  understand 

His  one  command: 

"  '  O  never  stay! 

Move  ye  forward.      There's  the  way 
That  leads  to  day/ 

"  Here  lay  him  low. 

Chant  no  more;  the  river's  flow 

Still  speaks  our  woe." 


80 


BT    WOOD    AND    FIELD 


PRELUDE:    WOOL-GATHERING 

ONE  lock  of  wool  from  off  this  thorn,  and  one 
From  yonder  shag  of  rock;   a  filmy  third 
From  this  dry  tuft  of  thyme,  and  on  and  on 
Up  hill,  down  trail,  in  woodland  vale  and  field, 
I  gather  for  my  fancy's  web  and  weave 
As  chance  and  time  decree  when  day's  delight 
Is  still  enough  for  joyful  living;  still 
Enough  for  comfort  for  the  stress  of  days  to  come. 


81 


AMONG   THE    OAKS 

I 

BLUE  are  the  skies;  the  warm  wind  trails 
No  cloud  across  the  land, 
Save  yonder  straggling  stream  of  birds, 
The  blackbirds'  nomad  band. 

II 

The  distant  wheelman  flashing  sweeps 

Along  the  hillside  road, 
Shimmers  across  the  sight,  is  gone — 

A  guess,  an  episode. 

Ill 

The  lark  that  loves  these  somber  fields 

Sings  yet  with  summer  trills, 
Although  November's  sun  slants  low 

On  Palo  Alto  hills. 

IV 

These  tufted  groups  of  oak  invite; 

The  field's  gray  monotone 
Offers  repose  of  thought;   'tis  good 

This  hour  to  be  alone. 


O  sov' reign  oaks,  with  courage  clear, 
You  go  from  strength  to  more! 

Perennial  praises  spring  from  you; 
You  live  and  you  adore. 


82 


VI  Among 

Adoring  still,  your  outward  reach 

Excels  your  upward  gain. 
How  count  you  growth  ?    Is  height  not  sweet  ? 

Is  compensation  pain? 


VII 

Twilights  of  purple,  rose,  and  blue, 
Soft  dusks  of  green  and  gray, 

Rest  in  your  shadows,  make  of  you 
Fit  place  wherein  to  pray. 

VIII 

So  tabernacled  in  this  veil, 

The  thought  is  cleared  from  dust; 
Pavilioned  so,  the  soul  renews 

Her  ancient  faith  and  trust. 

IX 

For  do  behold  the  light  stream  in, 
Through  netted  arch  and  dome! 

It  is  the  light  that  ever  lives, — 

"  It  comes  from  God,  our  home." 


X 

The  light  that  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  star, 

Hath  part  nor  parcel  in — 
Forevermore  its  lamp  is  lit, 

Forevermore  hath  been. 


Among  XI 

the  Oaks 


Howbeit  Nature  hints  of  it 

In  every  flower  that  blows, 
Love  we  her  works  for  something  less 

Than  that  which  through  them  flows- 

XII 

Radiance  from  the  Soul  of  all 
The  Light  that  Was  and  Is, 

That  yet  doth  penetrate  the  chinks 
And  claim  this  clay  for  His? 

XIII 

Though  worn-out  creeds  of  yesterday, 
Though  sins  of  self  and  gain, 

Thrust  in  opaquely,  blur  and  blot, 
But  cannot  wholly  stain, 

XIV 

Across  the  hurry  of  our  souls, 
Through  thriftless  toil  and  haste, 

There  slants  a  beam  we  do  not  see, 
To  save  our  years  from  waste. 

XV 

O  wherefore  pine  as  knowing  not  ? 

And  wherefore  live  so  scant  ? 
Why  art  thou  alien,  who  wast  born 

Thine  own  hierophant  ? 


XVI  Among 

the  Oaks 
Before  the  altars  of  His  praise, 

Go  forth,  my  soul,  to  lead 
Processional  and  anthem  choir, 

Let  Nature  not  precede. 


XVII 

Dear  are  the  chidings  of  the  oak, 
And  dear  the  field's  reproof; 

Nor  wise  are  we  nor  wise  have  been 
To  hold  our  lives  aloof. 

XVIII 

But  still  the  world  will  claim  its  own, 

And  life  go  on  amiss; 
We  fain  would  have  the  good  of  that 

And  yet  hold  fast  to  this. 


WITH   THE   FIELD-LARK 

TJEARKEN, 

n    Dear  lark, 

And  tell  me  true, 

I  have  reasons  for  singing, 

But  what  have  you? 

"  O  the  prospect  blue, 
The  ground  and  the  grass, 
And  freedom  to  roam  there, 
And  a  dear  little  home  there, 
When  the  night-winds  come  to  pass. 
What  better,  dear  mortal,  have  you?" 

Ah,  bird 

Of  the  relevant  word, 

What  thou  hast,  and  I  think  I  own, 

Let  us  not  measure  together. 

The  same  sky  and  the  same  weather 

Fall  to  my  share  of  the  world; 

And  all  that  is  or  shall  be  sown 

Of  field-flower  or  wood-flower  or  vine, 

All  that's  furled 

In  seed  of  oak  or  pine, 

Are  as  much  yours  as  mine, 

Are  as  much  mine  as  yours; 

Only,  there  are  scores  and  scores 

Of  closed  or  open  doors: 

Many  I  enter  thou  canst  not  see, 

And  thy  palaces  are  not  for  me; 

But  comrade  to  my  thought  thou  art 

In  the  blessedest  part, 

The  joy  of  living,  and  faith 


86 


In  what  the  book  of  Nature  saith —  With  the 

That  life  will  all  seem  good  Field-Lark 

When  the  worst  is  forgot 

And  the  best  understood; 

When  we  see  that  the  blot 

On  the  page  is  only  one 

Great  shadow  of  self  in  the  sun. 

The  preaching  is  done, 

Little  chorister;  one  little  hymn, 

Now,  ere  I  go  through  field-paths  dim, 

Benedicite,  the  good  night  falls, 

Benedicite,  thy  mate  calls, 

Benedicite. 


IN   THE    FIELD    IN    FEBRUARY 

CREEP,  little  mouse,  clear  out  in  the  sun, 
Unafraid,  to  yon  moss-tuft;  stop  to  nibble  and  run 
Over  knot-grass,  in  and  out,  under  sheaves 
Of  gray  weeds,  among  silky  long  leaves 
Of  wild  oats,  faded  white  in  the  rain, — 
Stop  to  nibble  in  peace;  make  what  gain 
Of  the  sunshine  thou  canst;  so  will  I, 
Little  friend,  unaware  as  thou  of  the  world; 
Unaware,  just  an  hour,  of  all  but  the  sky 
And  the  good  sweet  earth  at  my  feet, 
Where  the  springtime  and  harvest  are  curled, 
Safe  in  the  round  of  a  seed  thou  mayst  eat 
Even  now  as  a  morsel,  yet  diminish  thy  share 
In  what  is  to  come  not  one  little  meal, — 
So  full  has  been  the  sowing, 
So  great  has  been  the  knowing 
Of  all  that 's  good  and  fair. 

There,  where  our  springtime  and  harvest  in  keeping 
Lie,  in  the  root  of  the  flower,  in  the  seed  of  the  grass, 
In  the  hue  of  the  ground  and  the  moss  of  the  rock, 
Thou,  little  velvet-foot,  art  over-prying,  over-creeping; 
No  fear  hast  thou  that  food  will  fail  thee, 
No  thought  can  come  or  dread  assail  thee, 
While  this  sunny  promise  of  the  spring 
Gives  thee  warmth  for  wandering. 
The  sun  himself  constraint  shall  feel, 
The  stars  shall  lend  themselves  for  clock, 
The  moon  unbalance  the  world's  whole  sea 
When  the  frost  sets  forth  with  gnome-likekread 
Boulder  by  boulder,  block  by  block, 


88 


To  rend  and  shock  In  the  Field 

Granite  and  shale  to  make  our  bread.  in  February 

Yet  dare  we  boast  out  of  our  narrow  wits 

That  we  are  favorites 

Of  law?      Not  while  Nurse  Nature  sits 

At  times  and  frowns  on  thee  and  me, — 

Not  unaware,  when  all  is  said, — 

Indifferent,  clifflike,  though  I  be  ground 

To  dust,  or  thou  be  'gulfed  in  serpent's  maw, 

Or  either  inchmeal  chopped  to  gain 

For  some  pert  science  one  more  note: 

"  Something  smaller  and  more  nearly  round 

The  foramen,  here,  than  in  Peromyscus  found!" 

Little  comrade,  housed  to  rest, 

I  forbear  to  know  thy  runway,  seek  thy  nest; 

So  wend  by  and  shut  my  eyes 

To  the  gentle  enterprise 

That  has  found  thee  shelter  here. 

Thanks  for  pleasure,  friendship,  peace 

And  all  that  gave  the  thought  release. 

Thou  and  I  have  lives  that  run 

Safely  coursing  with  the  sun; 

Thou  and  I  may  sleep  or  wake; 

Day  of  judgment  shall  not  break 

Ere,  recorded  in  our  sphere, 

Each  shall  in  his  place  appear, — 

Thou  as  safe  as  I,  and  I 

Safe,  because  nor  Life,  nor  Death, 

Nor  other  creature  God  has  made 

That  lives  a  spirit,  or  draws  breath, 

Shall  molest  or  make  afraid. 


89 


In  the  Field     Now  along  the  brown-gray  plain 
in  February    Stripes  of  sunlight,  streams  of  mist, 
Seem  to  waver,  seem  to  float; 
Purple  are  the  hills,  an  amethyst 
Black  Mountain  is,  and  the  further  ridges 
Woven  into  one  by  fog's  fantastic  bridges, 
Veil  their  redwoods,  pass  from  sight; 
So  foregather  clouds  and  night. 


90 


IN    PALO    ALTO    GARDEN 

BROAD  leaf  and  narrow  leaf, 
Banner-leaf  and  arrow-leaf 
Wheel  in  the  sun  and  sprinkle 
Shadow  and  sun-spot,  stem-streak  and  wrinkle, 
With  gloom  and  with  glow. 

Palm  and  banana, 

Sequoia  and  canna, 

Rustle  and  whisper  and  shake 

Sheafage  and  spear-point,  and  break 

Leafage  and  shadow,  and  make 

Mysterious  word-hints  that  wake 

Memory  and  feeling,  enticing  the  thought 

To  a  green  world  full  of  leaves,  till  'tis  caught 

By  a  trick  of  bud-bursting,  or  play 

Of  a  flowering  spray 

Like  that  of  a  place  and  a  time  far  away, 

With  the  old  tale  of  springtime, 

Yet  with  language  and  rhythm  and  rime, 

Beautiful,  strange,  and  new. 

Now  the  sun,  a  gold  ship  in  the  blue, 

Snaring  the  thought  in  his  net,  sweeps 

Out  into  spaces,  off  into  deeps, 

Till  the  soul  turns  backward  in  terror  and  creeps 

Into  old  limits,  looks  for  solace  to  earth: 

To  something  familiar  of  form  and  hue, — 

To  star-eyed  verbena  that  crawls, 

Like  a  child  with  head  up  in  its  mirth, 

Toward  the  bright  spot  of  pansies; — to  the  roseleaf 

that  falls 
To  the  ground,  resting  surety  enough  that  the  world 


In  Palo  Alto  Is  tethered  somehow,  and  cannot  be  lost 

Garden  In  the  darkness  of  spaces,  nor  hurled, 

Ere  the  day  of  its  doom, 
Out  of  the  Hand  that  holds  it,  nor  tossed 
Into  the  furnace  where  dead  worlds  glow  ^ 
Red  hot,  then  turn  to  white  ashes,  and  drift 
Across  the  wide  heaven,  a  dust  or  a  gloom 
That  passes  forgotten. 

Ho,  little  flower, 

Hast  thou  tethered  me  so  ? — me,  unaware? 
Bright-spirited,  earthborn,  lead  me  not  such  a  race 
As  the  sun  leads.      Keep  to  thy  place 
Predestined;  keep  to  thy  blossoming  thrift; 
Be  a  gay  spot  on  the  brown  of  the  mould, 
Be  an  odor,  a  ground-wreath,  bless  thine  hour 
Content  with  thine  own  proper  dower. 

Yonder  beech,  copper-leaved,  symmetric,  not  overbold, 

But  respecting  its  forbears  among  strangers,  seems 

One  kind  of  joy  that  Nature  now  knows 

In  expressing  serenity,  strength,  and  repose; 

That  linden,  all  a-honeyed,  drones  with  bees 

From  its  skirts  to  its  crown.     Every  gain  it  has  planned 

By  giving  its  thousands  away  out  of  hand, 

Till  the  hives  overfill, — till  the  sweetness  pervades 

All  the  lawn  under-flowing  this  garden  of  trees. 

What  wonder  is  this,  now  ?     A  dry  stem  of  rose, 
Dead  past  all  hope,  yet  bright  with  a  bloom,— 
A  chrysalis-miracle:  wings  and  a  spirit  alive 
Out  of  silence,  and  sleep,  and  the  tomb. 
Touch  tenderly,  shadow;  rock  softly,  wind, 
Till  the  folded  wings,  all  a-tremble,  unclose, 
Spreading  like  petals  of  roses  that  strive 
From  the  twists  of  the  bud  to  be  free. 


92 


And  I  know  Reason  will  say  I  have  sinned  In  Palo  Alto 

Against  her,  putting  by  what  she  thinks  to  be  so,  Garden 

Having  measured  and  proved.      But  it  is  and  shall  be, 

That  thought  for  assurance  will  go 

Beyond  fact,  escaping  from  doubt  to  the  emblem  still; 

From  emblem  to  Prototype;   there,  then, 

How  fixed  are  the  feet,  how  secure  is  the  way! 

So,  O  my  soul,  why  glance  with  a  chill 

At  yon  sepulcher,  and  why  shadow  the  day 

With  a  question  of  When  ? 

Sea-green  and  golden  the  evening  sky  glows 

In  the  west  over  purple-blue  hills; 

Pale  gray  in  the  east,  and  a  tint  of  rose 

That  satisfies  and  fills 

All  the  wistful  spaces  of  the  heart, 

Late  and  low  streams  the  sun 

Over  low  field  and  vineyard;  late  and  low 

Sing  the  thrush  and  the  wren; 

And  once  more  ere  it  be  dark, 

Once  more  sings  the  lark 

To  his  answering  mate;  one  and  one 

To  the  hedge  the  mottled  quails  run; 

And  red  and  round  above  the  bay 

The  full  moon,  rising,  ends  the  day. 

The  gray  road  glimmers;  yonder  is  my  way. 


93 


PALO    ALTO    HILLS 

WHEN,  some  fair  eve,  in  lands  afar, 
I  walk  where  fancy  wills, 
And  one  shall  say,  "  So  beams  that  star 

On  Palo  Alto  Hills," 
It  needs  must  be  the  star  will  pale 

And  seem  less  kindly  near, 
Than  if,  through  tears,  the  voice  should  fail 

To  name  a  name  so  dear. 
For  tranquil  are  the  days  to  me 

And  charmed  from  old-time  ills, 
By  windows  facing  field  and  tree 

And  Palo  Alto  Hills; 
There  cloud  and  shine  such  dreamland  show 

Of  purple  and  of  mist, 
I  sometimes  think  I  almost  know 

The  look  of  amethyst, 
And  chrysolite,  and  chrysoprase 

Of  Heaven's  foundation- sills; 
And  find  the  peace  of  heavenly  days 

On  Palo  Alto  Hills. 


94 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

ELIAN    GRAY 

I 

YEARS  of  lone  length,  a  joyless  face, — 
Your  picture,  Elian  Gray: 
But  where  you  sit  'mid  faded  leaves 
Sat  Clare  one  far-off  May. 

II 

The  flowers  down  showering  on  us  both 
Made  fair  the  checkered  shade; 

She  hoarded  them  in  her  two  hands 
And  sighed  that  they  should  fade. 

Ill 

Yet  sighing  smiled  with  lips  content 

In  beauty  so  complete, 
My  heart,  re-echoing  what  she  felt, 

Lay  mutely  at  her  feet. 

IV 

She  saw  not  that  I  loved  her, —  no; 

Her  soul  was  slumbering  yet; 
A  child  of  nature,  simple,  true, — 

Would  she  my  face  forget? 

V 

We  parted,  and  her  troubled  eyes, 
Half-questioning,  looked  in  mine, 

With  something  in  her  lingering  glance 
I  could  not  then  divine. 


95 


Elian  Gray  VI 

They  say  she  grew  to  fair  estate 

Of  noble  womanhood: 
But  strangely  grave;  and  unaware 
That  love  was  life's  best  good. 

VII 

They  say  she  looked  as  one  who  waits 
A  step  that  would  not  come. 

When  other  lips  spoke  praise  of  me 
She  smiled,  but  hers  were  dumb. 

VIII 

Ah,  wretched,  that  my  stupid  heart 

And  inadvertent  eye 
Relinquished  all  that  love  could  give 

Through  doubt' s  inconstancy ! 

IX 

Doubt,  not  of  her,  but  doubt  of  God, 
And  feeble  faith  that  He 

Designed  for  men  much  earthly  joy, 
And,  least  of  all,  for  me. 


This  is  her  grave;  the  ripe  fruit  falls 
Where  blossoms  fell  before; 

This  is  her  grave;  here  all  paths  end 
For  me,  forevermore. 


96 


OF   A    SONG   AND    A    DREAM 

(AN    EXPERIMENT    IN    THE     REFRAIN    STANZA) 

I  HAD  a  vision  at  the  dawn  before  the  day  began, 
Along  my  lady* s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 
And  ever  through  it,  bright  and  sweet,  a  lover's  love- 
song  ran, 
Along  my  lady* s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

I  saw  a  poet  wrapped  in  thought  beneath  low  boughs 
of  pine, 

Along  my  lady's  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 
And  as  he  walked  he  wrote  upon  a  tablet  small  and  fine. 

Along  my  lady's  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

I  spoke;  he  did  not  turn  his  head;   he  would  not  hear 

me  speak; 

Along  my  lady's  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 
The  wandering  wind  blew  back  his  hair  and  flushed  his 

youthful  cheek. 
Along  my  lady's  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

His  hyacinthine  robes  made  murmurous  foldings  slow, 
Along  my  lady's  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

As  if  a  statue  stepped,  yet  undisturbed  did  go. 
Along  my  lady' s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

The   woodland    birds    above  him   flew;     the    flowers 
bloomed  around; 

Along  my  lady's  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 
Their  joy  was  in  his  soul;  he  heard  no  other  sound. 

Along  my  lady's  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 


97 


Of  a  Song         I  paced  beside  him  close;  I  looked  on  what  he  wrote; 
and  a  Dream         Along  my  lady* s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 
O  rare !     It  was  that  poet  of  the  perfect  note ! 
Along  my  lady* s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

That  great  young  bard  who  saw  the  elder  world  in  light 
Along  my  lady* s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

And  carved  its  gods  and  fanes  in  verse  of  marble  bright. 
Along  my  lady1  s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

<<  What  said  the  tablets  ?  What  oracular  saw  I  ?" 
Along  my  lady*  s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

— Alas,  Mnemosyne,  alas,  hadst  thou  been  by!  — 
Along  my  lady* s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

The  Sun-god's  tale  told  out  at  last,  Hyperion's  woe, 
Along  my  lady1  s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

From  that  long  broken  line,   complete  and  whole  did 

flow; 
Along  my  ladyy  s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

Gold  hair  "of  short  Numidian  curl,"  a  regal  brow, — 
Along  my  lady1  s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

And  on  and  on  the  tale  flowed  on,  beyond  all  memory 

now; 
Along  my  lady* s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

For  ere  my  dream-resolve  could  learn  the  wondrous 
rune, 

Along  my  lady1  s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 
He  hid  it  in  his  breast  to  hark  that  lover's  tune; 

Along  my  lady1  s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 


98 


He  smiled;  and  all  the  forest  seemed  with  springtime    Of  a  Song 

bright,  and  a  Dream 

Then  passed  the  dream  and  faded  in  the  morning  light. 
Along  my  lady1  s  garden,  linger,  lovely  stream. 

"How  could  I  lose  so  great  a  boon  ?"      Nay,  blame 

me  not, — 
Though  much  the  blame, — since  this  of  all  was  unfor- 

gotj 

A  lover's  love-song, — foolish  rime,  we  say, — 
Had  power  to  turn  that  clear  Olympian  soul  away 
From  thought's  profoundest  joy, —  projection    of  the 

forms 

Of  soul-created  beauty,  pastime  pure  that  warms 
All  nobler  moods  of  man  and  lights  the  facts  of  common 

day 
With  splendor  drawn  to  earth  by  song's  celestial  way. 

But  yes,  'tis  true;    such  loss  has  scarce  a  recompense; 
Hyperion's  tale!     I,  self  from  self,  lack  all  defense. 


99 


SONG 

A  ROBIN  sat  on  a  willow  tree, 
Sing  ivy;  sing  ivy. 
*  <  O  where  is  my  mate,  O  where  are  my  nestlings  three  ? ' ' 

Sing  ivy;  sing  ivy. 

"  The  storm  has  beaten,  the  wind  has  chilled, 
My  nest  with  snow  and  hail  is  filled." 
Sing  ivy;  sing  ivy. 

A  carline  sat  by  her  dead  hearth-fire; 

Sing  ivy;  sing  ivy. 
"  O  where  is  my  mate,  O  where  are  my  children  three  ? ' ' 

Sing  ivy;  sing  ivy. 

(f  The  waves  came  up  on  the  stormy  shore, 
And  the  boat  returned,  returned  no  more." 

Sing  ivy;  sing  ivy. 


100 


SONG 

WHEN    YOU    COME 

1  WHISPER  to  the  roses  in  my  room 
They  'd  best  be  sweetest  now,  and  bloom 
Out  full,  if  they  would  bloom  to  be 
All  any  roses  can  to  me; 
Mere  roses  I  shall  never  see 
When  you  come. 

Then  I  command  them  not  to  bloom 
In  foolish  waste  to  fill  my  room 
With  beauty  now.      Dare  they  be 
Aught  that  any  roses  might  to  me 
Unless  their  beauty  you  may  see 
When  you  come  ? 

Love,  though  they  wait,  or  though  they  bloom 
There  yet  shall  live  in  my  dim  room 
One  rose  of  loveliest  hope  to  me; 
Its  perfect  flowering  time  shall  be 
The  moment  I  your  face  shall  see, 
When  you  come. 


101 


THE    LITTLE    GRAY    BIRD 

O  LITTLE  gray  bird  in  the  dell, 
All  ashen  gray  and  sweet  and  fine, 
Your  looks  have  pleased  me  passing  well,- 
Your  taste  in  dress  is  just  like  mine, 

For  Ellen's  dress  is  ashen  gray, 

And  she  is  sweet  and  small  and  fine; 

But  there  resemblance  must  give  way, 
For  you  are  not,  and  she  is,  mine. 

I  hear  you  sing;  you  do  it  well; 

I  should  have  called  your  singing  fine, 
But  Ellen's  songs  can  weave  a  spell 

That  yours  must  lack,  for  she  is  mine. 

Yet  could  I  snare  you  in  my  hand 
And  so  enslave  your  body  fine  — 

Blithe  little  bird,  dost  understand? 
I  could  not  love  what  so  was  mine. 

Yet  could  I  coax  you  with  a  word, 
To  give  to  me  your  presence  fine, 

I  doubt  myself  and  much,  wee  bird, 
If  I  could  love  what  so  were  mine. 

Yet  were  you  Ellen,  tender,  true, 
As  you  are  you,  and  small  and  fine, 

My  life,  my  love  would  turn  to  you 
As  now  to  her,  for  she  is  mine. 


102 


PERHAPS    IF    WE    KNEW 

AN  oak-tree  sighed,  "  O  Life,  if  I  could  sing 
As  the  pine-tree  sings  of  the  epic  sea! 
But  this  mere  voiceless  murmuring — 
To  men,  what  can  it  be  ?" 

A  wandering  poet,  passing  by, 
Heard  the  lifting  leaves  a-sigh; 

Of  subtly-scented  air 

His  soul  became  aware, 
And  memory  waked  and  saw  through  tears, 
The  gentle  joys  of  earlier  years; 
Out  of  a  full  heart  flowing,  then, 
Came  a  comforting  song  to  sorrowing  men. 

And  thou,  because  no  lyric  frees  thy  soul  to  men, 
In  asolian  harping  like  the  voice  of  pines, — 
Thou  mournest  ?    Perhaps  some  word  of  thine,  dropped 

when 

A  weary  spirit  passes  by,  defines 
The  path  of  joy  and  beauty  through  the  wilderness 
And  thee —  he  knows  not  whom — he  turns  to  bless. 


103 


A    FOSTER    MOTHER'S   THOUGHT 

MOTHER  NATURE  took  a  census,  once,  to  see 
If  on  the  earth  there  could  a  mother  be 
Who  loved  her  only  child  as  much  as  she 
Loved  Earth,  her  child,  in  her  entirety, 
And, — joy  to  think! — she  counted  me. 

For,  when  she  listened  at  my  heart,  she  heard, — 
If  prayer  it  was,  or  wish,  or  loving  word, 
Or  any  daring  hope  that  in  it  lived  and  stirred, — 
Some  tender  thought  for  him,  the  gentle  youth, 
Who  is  to  me  a  loving  son  in  truth. 

And  so  she  counted  me,  and  never  knew 

I  had  no  vested  right  within  the  line  she  drew 

Round  mothers  who  have  title  full  and  true; 

She  counted  me,  and  placed  me  in  that  radiant  row 

Of  mothers  who  her  large  way  of  loving  know. 


104 


TO    EACH    OTHER 

WHAT  would  you  have?'' 
"  A  Castle  in  Spain 
Built  out  of  my  brain,  my  love, 
Built  out  of  my  brain! 
Some  potent  grain 
To  cure  heart-pain,  my  love, 
To  cure  heart-pain — 
What  would  you  have  ? ' ' 

"  What  would  I  have? 

That  Castle  in  Spain, 

Built  out  of  your  brain,  true  love, 

Built  our  of  your  brain; 

For  in  Castles  in  Spain 

You  would  cure  heart-pain,  my  love, 

I  would  cure  heart-pain: 

Love  would  we  have." 


105 


VERILY 


A  YOUNG  knight  found  a  gem  of  truth 
Upon  a  fallow  field, 
And  set  as  safeguards  his  bright  youth 
And  his  undinted  shield. 

But  men  denied  with  spear  and  lance 

And  shamed  his  truth  to  dust; 
With  argument  and  circumstance 

Himself  to  death  they  thrust. 

"  Then  died  that  truth  ? ' '      No,  no !     It  lives 

And  grows  a  gracious  tree; 
And  ships  that  bear  the  fruit  it  gives 

Sail  now  on  every  sea. 

"  The  men  who  slew  the  young  knight  brave 
What  fate,  the  while,  have  they?  " 

They  seek,  for  aye,  beside  his  grave, 
The  truth  they  tried  to  slav ' 


106 


TO   A.    B.    C. 


I  THOUGHT  I  knew  all  womankind, 

1    The  stately  and  the  fair, 

The  sweet,  the  wise,  the  love-inclined, 

The  deft,  the  debonair; 
"  But  never  yet  is  one,"  I  said, 

"  For  whom  grave  Clotho  spun 
A  strand  of  life  of  all  fair  thread 

And  never  left  out  one." 

But  then,  you  see, 

I  did  not  know  my  A.  B.  C. 


TRIOLET 


SING  low,  thou  bird  of  lingering  note, 
She  comes  along  the  poplar  lane; 
A  white  cloud  's  in  the  sky  afloat, 

(Sing  low,  thou  bird  of  lingering  note,) 
Above  us  both,  yet  less  remote 

Than  she  from  me,  a  soul  profane. 
Sing  low,  thou  bird  of  lingering  note, 
She  comes  along  the  poplar  lane. 


107 


THE    FALL    OF    THE    LEAF 

A     CREATURE-DRAMA     IN     THREE     ACTS 


PERSONS 


THE  CHIPMUNK,  THE  WEASEL, 

CWINK,  tbt  Ntigbbor  Chipmunk,  Two  DOVES, 

THE  THING,  A  HUNTER,  with  a  gun, 

THE  SNAKE,  A  CHILD. 

PLACE — A  woodtd  mountain-sidt  in  tht  Sitrra. 
TIME — Early  autumn. 

ACT  I.      SCENE  i. 

PLACE— A  log  htmmtd  in  by  a  tbicktt.          TittB~Afttrnoon. 
PERSONS—  Tht  Chipmunk,  Tht  Thing,  Tht  Child,  Tbt  Wtattl 
Tbt  Snakt. 

THE  CHIPMUNK  [at  first  running  about  the  wood  path, 

then  stopping^ . 

There  is  a  stir  among  the  pine-tree  tops, 
There  is  a  creeping  low  of  wind  among  the  shrubs, 
A  falling  slow  of  here  a  yellow  leaf  and  there 
A  red  one.      I  know  not  what  it  bodes  to  me, 
But  I  must  make  my  home  all  safe  and  warm 
For  what  is  coming.      I  must  fill  my  stores. 
Here  is  a  feather  white  of  Lady  Dove's; 
I  like  her  most;  'twill  help  to  make  my  bed; 
And  here's  a  strip  of  thin  sweet  bark, 
A  lock  of  wool,  a  shag  of  moss, — 
I  '11  tear  you,  scratch  you,  yellow  thing, 
You  feather  of  the  sparrow-hawk  I  fear! 
Kst!    Ooh!    Ooh!    That 's  the  track  of  the  Thing! 
Run,  run!     O  Terror!     Am  I  hid  enough 
Beneath  this  bunch  of  leaves?     Let  me  look  out, 
Still, — still  as  the  earthworm!     And  never  rustling 
In  these  dry  oak-leaves.      Ah,  safe  in  my  own  cell, 
My  rounded  cell  in  the  big  log 
Among  the  berry-trees.      The  Thing  can  hear  ? 
Let  me  not  think! 


109 


The  Fall  of   THE  THING  \snuffing  about] . 

the  Leaf  Where  went  that  legged  atom  with  the  stripes? 

I  marvel  that  a  beast  so  small  should  be  so  wise; 
Here  by  the  log  it  went, — up  that  tree, — there! 
Is  that  its  beaded  head, — its  white-spot  ears? 
This  daylight  pinches  up  my  eyes  to  slits 
I  cannot  see  through,  so  these  saucy  mites, 
These  bush-tailed  whiffets,  find  their  homes 
And  leave  me  cheated  of  the  sweetest  fat  I  know. 
That 's  a  white  lichen-splotch,  and  I'll  not  climb. 
He  went  not  such  a  way,  I  think, 
But  in  those  rocks  I  scorn  to  turn  aside 
He  's  lying  flat.      May  the  snake  get  him! 

[Lies  down  on  the  log  and  stretches, .] 
There  's  somewhat  strange  and  tall  that  walks  this  path 
And  pulls  the  nuts  down  from  the  bushes  here, 
And  munches  like  that  lightning-footed  thing, — 
If  I  but  dared  to  try  its  bones? — Hark! 
He  comes  now. 

{A  child  goes  by,  singing  and  bearing  a   bough 
of  wild  red  plums. ~\ 

Through  the  thicket  screen  of  boughs 
See  him  go  by  on  two  flat  feet,  and  if — 
There '  s  something  rustles  in  the  leaves  or  in 
The  log.      The  fanged  groundworm  that  I  hate ! 

THE  SNAKE. 

I  saw  him  creep  in  hither  in  a  fume 
Of  terror.      I  '11  coil  me  here  where  he  must  come 
Again,  and  take  him  for  my  dinner, — so. 
One  streak  of  sun  pours  through  the  leaves  straight  down 
As  I  would  choose  it.      These  dead  brown  leaves 
And  yellow  blots  of  clay  will  hide  me  well. 
Am  I  so  ugly? — 'or  not,  the  Thing 
Fears  me. 


no 


THE  CHIPMUNK  [in  his  cell  in  the  log\ .  The  Fall  of 

Softly  I  '11  weave  my  winter  bed  a  while;  ^e  Leaf 

I  cannot  leave  my  home  to-day  for  fear. 

I  am  so  sick  of  fear!     I  '11  close  this  door 

And  make  a  way  through  that  small  chink. 

There  is  the  dove's  feather,  it  shall  go  here 

Where  my  head  lies;  and  this  sweet-smelling  moss, 

And  the  strip  of  silvery  bark.      Now  one  more  cell 

I  '11  make,  and  that  shall  be,  then,  three  for  sleep 

And  one  for  store. 

[The  Thing  stretches  on  the  log  above  the  chip 
munk?  s  nest,  licks  his  paws,  and  purrs.  ~\ 
Hark!     Is 't  thunder?      O  me! 

Something  will  hear  my  heart  beat, — beat  so! 

Still, — be  still  as  the  earthworm;  —  still  as  the  snail. 

THE  WEASEL  [coming  toward  the  end  of  the  log\  . 

Ha,  ah!     I  've  found  your  runway,  now  at  last, 
You  of  the  saucy  stripes  and  perked-up  ears; 
I  '11  get  you  now, — now,  little  fool  in  the  log. 

THE  SNAKE  {lifting  its  heacT\ . 

That  hateful  stoat!     He  seeks  the  little  beast 
That  he  may  suck  his  blood. 

\_The  Weasel,  unaware,  creeps  upon  the  snake. ~\ 
Creep  and  ape  me,  will  you?    Take  that,  blood-sucker. 
[Strikes  and  recoils  in  his  place.      The  Weasel 
creeps  away  and  dies.      The    Thing,  terrified 
by  the  rattle  of  the  Snake,  springs  from  the 
log  and  flees  up  the  hill-side;  as  he  runs,  his 
foot  loosens  a  stone  which,  rolling  down,  crushes 
the  Snake  and  closes  up  the  end  of  the  log.~\ 


in 


The  Fall  oj  ACT   II.      SCENE   i. 

PERSONS — Two  Doves.      Same  flace;    time,  next  day. 

THE  Two  DOVES  [he  preening  his  feathers  on  the  log 
over  the  Chipmunk* s  nest;  she  swinging  on  an  over 
hanging  oak-bough~\ . 

She.     This  was  our  oak-bough, 

Here  was  our  nest; 
The  leaves  are  estranged  now, 

All  is  so  changed  now; 
We  change  with  the  rest. 
O  Love,  change  comes  and  snow. 

Where,  where  can  we  go? 

He.      Lovely  and  warm  and  low 

In  the  lowland  air 
Lies  a  home  I  know, 

A  dear  home  I  know. 
Come  fly  with  me  there. 

She.     I  know  not  a  tree 

In  the  valley  low 

Whither  to  flee 
When  nightwinds  blow. 

Stay  but  a  day, — 
Stay,  stay,  but  a  farewell  day. 

He.      Linger  no  more,  love; 
The  valley  is  fair. 

She.     Here  falls  a  red  leaf, 

There  one  of  gold; 
Here  clings  a  dead  leaf, 

There  loses  hold. 
Where  are  our  friends,  now? 
Everything  ends  now. 


112 


The  little  brown  beasts  The  Fall  of 

Have  left  their  nut-feasts;  the  Leaf 

The  hermit-thrush  glooms 

In  the  thicket's  dark  rooms, 

And  the  wee  lonely  wren 

Just  speaks  to  us,  then 

Hides  himself  and  his  song 

Where  the  fir-roots  throng 

Over  the  cliff's  high  edge. 

The  sun  finds  the  ferns 

Where  their  yellow  light  burns 

In  the  leaf-riven  hedge, 

Like  that  flash  of  bright  flame 

When  the  wood's  blackened  shame 

Came  upon  it  in  summer's  low  tide, 

And  shriveled,  and  blasted,  and  killed 

Whatever  was  wingless,  and  filled 

All  the  world  with  burnt  ruin  wide. 

We  have  seen  it  and  known; 

Ere  our  nestlings  had  flown  — 

He.       Think  not  of  that  sad  time. 
Now  many  a  glad  time 
In  the  far  fields  of  spring 

Is  waiting  for  you. 
Come,  sweet  wife  and  true, 
Lift  your  heart,  lift  your  wing, 
Cleave  we  together,  seeking  the  blue 
Sky  of  the  distant  and  new. 


The  Fall  of  AcT  m       Sc£NE 

M^  Leaf 

PERSONS— T"£>«    Chipmunk,  Neighbor  Cwink,  The  Thing,  The  Hunter. 
Time,  next  afternoon,-    same  place. 

[  The  Chipmunk  and  Neighbor  Cwink,  running  on 
the  log,  stopping  at  a  knot-hole, ,] 

THE  CHIPMUNK. 

That's  the  door  of  my  home.      Keep  away!    I'll 

scratch, — 

I  Ml  bite!      But  let  us  run  up  and  down  our  play  ways 
In  the  sunshine;  but  squeak  not. 

[  They  run  up  and  down  to  the  end  of  the  log  and 
back,  and  stop  suddenly. ~\ 

That  was  a  leaf 

From  the  oak;  it  rustled  as  it  fell  there  by  the  bush; 
And  there  's  another  dropping  in  the  wind;  but  I  'm 

afraid. 

That  was  a  thrush  hopping  through  the  hazel  thicket, — 
But  I  'm  afraid.     I  cannot  see,  though  I  stand  up  tall, 
What  the  thing  that  moves  is.      Chizct !      Chzit ! 
[  The  Thing  with  his  feet  on  the  log  about  to  spring 
over.      The    Chipmunk   runs   up    an    oak-tree 
and  hides  in  a  bunch  of  mistletoe.     The  Neigh 
bor  disappears  in  a  pile  of  stones.  ~\ 

SCENE  2. 

Time,  next  morning. 

THE  THING  [lying  down  on  the  log  listening^ . 

Aha,    something   chimbles    in  the    log,  —  the   little 

brown-stripe  beast! 
Now  I  Ml  get   him  when  the  sun  comes  up  above  the 

pines, 


114 


For  he  '11  come  out  to  drink  and  climb  the  hazel-twigs,     The  Fall  of 
And  stuff  his  cheeks;  I  know  his  kin  and  all  their  tricks,    the  Leaf 

[Purrs,  dresses  bis  fur,  and  dozes, ,] 
THE  CHIPMUNK  [inside  the  log\ . 

It  is  the  roar  of  some  great  wind;  or  the  rain  comes 
From   the  thunder-place, —  that  must  be  the  noise, — 

and  I  '11  not  stir; 

Besides,  I  am  afraid,  and  a  shiver  pinches  down  my  back. 
I  '11  sleep  some  more.      But  there  is  Neighbor  Cwink 
Calling  from  the  hazel-thicket;  will  he  get  the  last  nuts, 

think  ? 
So  I  must  harvest  a  while  till  the  rain  comes. 

[Chipmunk  starts  to  leave  his  nest.    As  he  reaches 

the   door  where  the  Thing  is  watching,  there 

is  a  flash,  a  loud  noise,  and  the    Thing  falls 

dead  over  the  knot-hole,  the   Chipmunk  going 

back  to  his  nest.~\ 
It  is  the  thunder-fire;  now  comes  the  rain  and  I  shall 

sleep, 
For  Cwink  and  I  can  get  no  nuts  to-day, 

[Cwink    runs    away   from    the    hazel- thicket, 

shrieking  with  terror.^ 
And  something  tells   me   that   what  would  come  has 

come.      I  '11  sleep. 

THE  HUNTER  [coming  up,  turns  over  the  dead  body 
of  the    Thing, ,] 

Ho,  ho,  unlocked  for  luck! 

'T  was  you  that  killed  old  Topknot,  and  ate  the  chicks 
Of  Ruffleneck,    and    were    whetting    up   for    smaller 

game, — 
The  little  squirrel,  nimble,  curious,  friendly, 


The  Fall  of  A  bare  midget,  silken-striped,  that  makes  the  big  dark 
the  Leaf  woods 

So  cheery  with  his  antics.   Luck  for  me,  and  luck  for  him 
I  came  in  time.     By  your  leave,  old  cat  of  the  Canon, 

[  Taking  the  Thing  on  bis  shoulder,] 
Go  home  with  me  and  make  a  soft  warm  rug 
For  two  small  feet  by  the  winter  fire. 

[Hunter   goes  by,  whistling    <f  The  Song  of  the 
Forest   Children."] 


116 


ARIEL    AND    CALIBAN 

CALIBAN  [to  ARIEL]  . 

LO,  Ariel,  now,  I  hunger;  let  me  eat; 
I  weary  digging  these  dull  rocks; 
And  thou  dost  naught  but  fly  and  pleat 
Thy  wings, — braid  in  and  out, — with  fleecy  locks 
Of  yon  bright  cloud;  I  see  not  where 
Thou  feedest,  nor  on  what;  to  me 
Thy  hand  is  cruel  that  it  has  no  care 
Because  I  slave  and  starve,  and  yet  must  be. 
Lo,  Ariel,  now,  give  me  to  eat, 
And  let  me  slumber  in  these  sedges  sweet. 

ARIEL  [to  CALIBAN], 

Eat,  then,  thou  necessary  thing, 
These  nuts  and  berries  from  the  hedge,  but  haste 
That  so  I  need  not  stoop  my  wing 
Below  that  cloud's  gold  edge,  nor  waste 
The  evening  star  but  for  a  clod  like  thee. 
Sleep,  too,  thou  earth.      Yet  briefly,  see! 

"Tis  loss  that  I  must  wait,  while  thou  dost  snore, 
To  measure  great  Orion's  jeweled  brand; 
To  weave  into  Homeric  warp  this  island  lore, 
The  woof  of  life  upon  this  wondrous  shore; 
To  say  how  many  sons  yet  before 
This  circling  panicle  of  worlds  shall  stand 
In  apsis,  glowing  Alcyone  between; 
Or  make  upon  this  earth  a  search  so  keen 
No  secret  of  the  monad  may  escape  unseen. 


117 


Ariel  and   [ARIEL  soliloquizes]  . 

Caliban  peecj?    Who  feeds  but  beasts  ?    Who  sleeps  but  clods  ? 

This  dull  machine  of  flesh  and  bone 

Needs  little  save  a  scourge  of  rods, 

The  mind  of  man  is  man  alone. 

What  good  were  that  brute  force  to  find 

And  string  in  order  on  their  thread 

Those  beaded  stars,  and  so  unwind 

And  hold  one  other  secret  yet  unread  ? 

Were  that  brute  force  to  seize  on  Space,  and  bind 

And  match  with  Time  that  would  not  wed  ? 

To  fix  relations  clear  of  mote  and  star  ? 

Or  draw  the  limits,  that,  at  widest,  bar 

The  soul's  outgoing  to  the  near  and  far? 

[To  CALIBAN]. 

Wilt  wake  ?     Wilt  wake,  thou  earthen  earth  ? 
Three  hours  are  gone  in  sodden  sleep! 
Take  up  thy  pick-ax,  dig  for  me  a  girth 
Of  ditch  about  this  rocky  steep. 
"And  wherefore,  then  ?"      'T  were  easiest  to  say 
That  thou  may'st  eat,  thou  worm,  and  I  forsooth  may 

play; 

But  'tis  that  I  may  read  with  one  sharp  glance 
Creation's  tale  writ  out  in  rocky  circumstance. 

Do  but  my  bidding;  groan  and  fret 
Unto  thyself,  and  ache  thy  aches; 
What  mercy  have  I  —  Ariel  —  that  forget 
Fatigue  and  baffling,  all  that  breaks 
Such  weakling  things  as,  made  of  flesh, 
Cry  out  and  groan,  entangled  in  the  mesh 


118 


Of  their  own  wants?      Pure  spirit  made  to  be  Ariel  and 

Am  I,  and  hedged  round  by  no  necessity.  Caliban 

What,  slave!     Drag  not  upon  my  floating  hem 
The  weight  of  thy  dull  hand.   Away !   Thy  heavy  eyes 
Hold  down  my  wings.      Thy  faltering  nerve 
Knits  round  me  some  quick-burning  spell. 
Away,  thou  slave!      For  Ariel  shall  not  swerve. 
Yet  where  is  Ariel's  power?     I  cannot  stem 
This  flood  of  fire !     I  reel,  I  cannot  rise. 

\_Ariel  swoons, ,] 
CALIBAN. 

Ha!  ha!      I  crush  thee,  airy  fool, 
Beneath  the  iron  of  a  broken  law ! 
I  was  thy  sledge,  thy  edged  tool; 
Thy  slave,  with  slavish  form  and  slavish  name, 
Thy  slave  that  could  not  turn  and  draw 
His  clumsy  weapon  on  a  soul  of  flame? 
I  was  thy  burden-beast  that  had  no  need 
To  sleep,  or  rest,  or  drink,  or  feed? 
Lo,  now,  who  groans  and  aches  ?     Who  cannot  rest  ? 
Who  pines  and  starves  because  I  will  not  eat? 
Who  grovels  on  the  earth  and  writhes,  at  worst  and 

best? 

And  shivers  when  the  sun  doth  rise,  and  would  entreat 
The  stars  to  set,  they  are  so  fiery-full  of  heat? 
Ha!  ha!     I  suffer  too!     The  jar-nuts  pall, 
And  flat  and  tasteless  flows  the  freshet  spring; 
And  sleep  doth  never  come  to  my  loth  eyes, 
That  wide  awake  but  stare  into  the  staring  skies. 
Unsteady  is  the  voice  that  once  could  call 
The  jay's  call  back,  and  fool  the  gnawing  thing 
That  hides  ripe  filberts  in  his  grass-lined  nest; 


119 


Ariel  and    But  twice  and  thrice  I  care  not  when  I  turn  to  mould, 
Caliban         Ground  over  by  the  dew-worm  long  o'  dewy  nights, 
So  I  but  venge  my  slave-lot,  cruel,  cold; 
So  I  but  keep  him  back  from  seeking  what  he  would, 
With  heaven-pointing  wings,  at  dark  or  dawn, 
From  seeking  'mong  the  greater  and  the  lesser  lights, 
For  what  delights  him  —  that  ethereal  good 
1  know  not,  but,  with  hate-sword  ever  drawn, 
Will  hew  and  hack  against,  until  I  die  and  turn  to 

mould, 
Until  I  die  and  turn  again  to  crumbled  mould. 


120 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

A    WEDDING-DAY    GALLOP 

(EARLY  CALIFORNIA) 

/"^ALLOP  with  me,  love,  away  and  away, 
V-J   To  the  infinite  blue  at  the  end  of  the  day. 

Here  at  the  gate 

Crimhild  and  Bruns wicker  wistfully  wait; 
Up  to  the  saddle,  away  and  away, 
Far  away,  far,  to  the  end  of  the  day. 

Here  by  the  river  and  there  by  the  plain, 
Here  in  the  sunlight  and  there  in  the  rain; 
Off  round  the  mountain's  bewildering  base, 
Off  at  a  joyously  perilous  pace, — 
Off  and  away,  love. 

There  by  the  sea,  along  the  gray  shore, 
Across  the  dim  desert,  miles  score  and  score; 
Away  and  away  and  always  with  me, 
Gallop  and  gallop  forever  with  me. 

Now  by  the  sea! 
Feet  on  the  sand  keeping  time  with  the  waves, 

Smile  on  the  lips  and  flush  on  the  cheek, — 
Now  a  smile,  just  a  glance,  all  our  happiness  saves 

Each  for  the  other;   that  language  we  speak 
As  we  gallop  and  gallop  o'er  weed  and  o'er  shell. 
Hark  to  the  waves  as  they  rise  and  they  swell, 

At  the  swing  of  the  berylline  sea. 


121 


A  Wedding-    Now  the  waves  gallop  on  like  hounds  at  our  feet, 
day  Gallop      And  ever  the  wavering  moments  repeat 

Crimhild's  and  Brunswieker's  gallopings  fleet, 

Along  by  the  sea, 
The  chalcedonine,  wavering,  berylline  sea. 

The  dun  desert  now! 

Level  sand,  ever  sand,  not  a  hillock  or  cleft; 

Lizard  here,  squirrel  there,  hurries  right,  scurries  left; 

Sagebrush  and  bitterwood  mingle  and  flow, 

Wavelike  and  serpentine,  on  as  we  go. 

Shadow  as  scant  as  the  dews  and  the  damp  — 

'Ware,  there,  good  Crimhild !  a  snake  coils  to  spring ! 

Ah,  her  foot  cleaves  him  dead  with  a  metrical  stamp, 

With  a  flash  of  the  eyes  like  the  flare  of  a  lamp. 
Now  a  lift  of  white  mane  like  the  beat  of  a  wing, 
Neck  to  neck  she  is  matching  black  Brunswieker's 
swing. 


A  palm-shadowed  pool, 

Deeply  dark,  deeply  cool, 
Desert-girt,  green-jeweled,  alone  in  the  land, 
Like  the  emerald  engraven  I  've  set  on  this  hand. 

Rest,  rest  in  its  shade  here,  thou  heart  of  my  heart. 
Here  's  a  cup  from  my  scrip.   Here  is  fruit  ripe  and  rare. 
Juice  of  citron,  bread  of  snow,  yellow  figs  in  a  rime 
Of  sweet  dust;  jellied  cherries,  white  once  on  a  time — 
Dost  remember? — in  bloom  overhead 
When  hearkened  thy  heart  to  the  word  that  mine  said. 


122 


Dim  lie  the  blue  mountains;  and  there  waits  the  dusk     A   Wedding- 
With  a  star  in  her  forehead, — a  home,  O  my  heart,    day  Gallop 

To  enfold  us  and  hold  us;  a  gardened  repose 
Of  lilies  in  alleys,  and  roses,  and  musk 

Of  ripe  grapes  from  the  vineyard,  all  agleam  and  apart, 
In  green  oaken  glades  as  my  heart  sees  and  knows. 

As  my  heart  sees  and  knows, 
There  's  thy  window,  netted  round  with  a  jasmine  that 

gropes, 

Overclimbing  the  purple  of  low  heliotropes, 
To  look  with  its  numberless  stars  on  thy  face, 
And  sweeten  the  garden  with  new-gathered  grace. 


There  shines  the  home-candle,  through  alley  and  vine. 
Home,  home,  at  last,  love, —  thine,  thine!  And  mine 
Only  so!  Wide  the  gate,  dear  and  blessed  the  door. 
Now  enter,  and  dwell,  be  at  rest,  heart  and  thought, 
evermore. 

So  endeth  our  gallop,  our  day  of  all  days, 

Through  the  land,  by  the  sea, 
Through  the  desert  wild  ways, 

Together,  together,  and  always  to  be. 


123 


THE    NEW   HOUSE   AND    HOME 
L.  F.  AND  M.  G.  C. 

REAR  the  walls  and  spread  the  roof; 
Fashion  stairway,  hall,  and  hearth; 
Lay  the  doorsill  far  aloof 

From  noisy  highway's  din  and  dearth; 
Make  the  windows  high  and  low, 
That  the  pleasant  rooms  may  know 
Sky  and  garden,  heaven  and  earth. 
Yet  from  these  the  heart  may  roam; 
These  make  the  house  but  not  the  home. 

Pictures,  statues,  dainty  nooks, 

Flowing  curtains,  hearthstone  clear, 
Loving  trifles,  use-worn  books, 

Heart-remembering  things  and  dear, 
Gifts  of  love  and  gifts  of  grace, 
Meet  the  glance  in  every  place, — 
Who  could  not  be  happy  here? 

Yet  from  these  the  heart  may  roam; 
They  make  the  house  but  not  the  home. 

Plant  the  rose-tree,  train  the  vine, 

Wind  the  smooth  walks  in  and  out; 
Set  the  borders  trim  and  fine, 

That  the  paths  may  lead  about 
Where  the  garden  ways  are  sweet, 
Where  soft  grass  beguiles  the  feet; 

Yet  from  these  the  heart  may  roam; 

They  all  may  be  and  not  mean  home. 


124 


Add  sweet  music;   will  these  stay  The  New 

In  his  course  the  morning  star?  House  and 

Make  our  paths  a  perfect  way?  Home 

Bring  life's  secret  from  afar? 
Nay,  life's  secret  is  from  near; 

Worthless  were  these  things  that  fade, 

Were  they  all  our  anchor  made; 
Heart's  love  only  keeps  us  here. 

Ah!  from  this  we  can  not  roam! 

This  makes  our  house,  this  builds  our  home. 


125 


NOVEMBER    RAIN 

"""PIS  morning,  dim  with  quiet  rain; 
1     A  cloud  of  blackbirds  on  the  wing 

Sweep  out  of  sight 

In  rhythmic  flight, 

And  leave  for  proof  that  they  can  sing 
A  heart-stirred  memory  of  the  spring 
Reverberate  within  the  brain, 
That  rhymes  it  with  November  rain. 

"Tis  morning,  gray  with  quiet  rain; 
A  lark,  from  sight  by  earth-hues  caught, 

Alternate  feeds, 

And  blithely  leads 

In  sweet  response  of  song  my  thought, 
Until,  I  know  not  how,  is  wrought 
An  unpremeditated  strain 
That  rhymes  it  with  November  rain. 


126 


A  NOVEMBER  POPPY 

IN  a  low  brown  meadow  on  a  day 
Down  by  the  autumn  sea, 
I  saw  a  flash  of  sudden  light 
In  a  sweep  of  lonely  gray; 
As  if  a  star  in  a  clouded  night 
One  moment  had  looked  on  me 
And  then  withdrawn;  as  if  the  spring 
Had  sent  an  oriole  back  to  sing 
A  silent  song  in  color,  where 
Other  silence  was  too  hard  to  bear. 

I  found  it  and  left  it  in  its  place, 
The  sun-born  flower  in  cloth  of  gold 
That  April  owns,  but  cannot  hold 
From  spending  its  glory  and  its  grace 
On  months  that  always  love  it  less, 
But  take  its  splendid  alms  in  their  distress. 

Back  I  went  through  the  gray  and  the  brown, 
Through  the  weed -woven  trail  to  the  distant  town; 
The  flower  went  with  me,  fairly  wrought 
Into  the  finest  fiber  of  my  thought. 


127 


GO  FORTH  AND  TEACH 

WHEN  thou  hast  finer  morals  than  the  beech, 
More  inward  grace  than  elm,  nor  less 
Of  outward  patience,  then  go  forth  and  teach 
The  hurrying  city  of  thy  graciousness 
Enough  to  salt  its  bread  and  reach 
Its  blood  and  drive  it,  under  stress, 
To  higher  impulse,  nobler  thought  and  speech. 

When  thou  hast  learned  its  leisure  of  the  grass, 
Hast  mastered  for  thyself  its  book  of  laws, 
Then  set  the  currents  of  thy  life  to  pass 
Through  channels  wrought  by  equal  cause 
To  broader  fields  of  sequence;  skies  of  brass 
Nor  desert  earth  shall  make  thee  pause 
Ere  thou,  thyself,  shalt  treasure  great  amass. 

Then  thou  shalt  know  that  life  holds  all  in  fee, 

As,  worthy  to  itself,  itself  it  makes; 

That  worth  unto  itself  through  this  must  be: 

That  to  its  neighbor,  high  or  low,  it  breaks 

Some  loaf  of  life,  and,  holding  thus  the  key 

Of  soul-relation  to  all  life,  it  takes 

Its  joy  from  self- forgetting  ministry. 


128 


MY    BEECH-TREE 

I    KNOW  a  tree  whose  branches  meet 
Above  my  head,  beneath  my  feet, 
In  arches  green,  in  shadows  sweet. 

I  know  not  whether  now  its  leaves 

Still  whisper  in  October  eves, 

Or  May  its  springtime  splendor  weaves. 

It  may  be  dead  and  turned  to  dust, 
But  somewhere,  still,  persistent  trust 
Believes  it  lives,  is  sure  it  must. 

Though  cooler  reason  would  put  by 
This  subtle  theme  with  how,  and  why, 
This  faith  survives, —  it  did  not  die. 

Within  my  thought  its  branches  wave, 
Its  rain- wet  leaves  my  forehead  lave, 
It  still  gives  all  that  once  it  gave. 

Yet,  half  way  up  in  its  strong  arms, 
I  sit  and  feel  the  thrill  that  charms 
Its  own  cool  life  and  mine  from  harms. 

No  leaf  of  it  can  ever  fade; 

In  something  of  myself  arrayed, 

It  was  therewith  immortal  made. 


129 


SELF 


YON  jay  that  sits  so  pert  upon  the  bough, 
Though  but  an  egg  a  June  or  two  ago, 
Knows  now  the  universe  was  made  for  him, — 
Was  made  for  him  for  perch  and  nest, 
No  prettier  logic  in  his  head  for  proof 
Than  spiteful  peck  and  hoarse  kul-leer. 

Yon  lithe,  long  leopard,  crouching  there, 
Where  unaware  the  gentle  deer  crop  grass 
Upon  this  verdant  earth  of  theirs, 
Knows  well  that  till  he  change  his  spots 
The  universe  is  his. 

Yon  baby  in  his  mother's  arms 

Will  have  the  newly-risen  moon 

To  ease  the  ache  of  coming  teeth 

Upon  its  silver  rim, — "Give  me  the  moon!" 

Dare  you  deny  the  universe  is  his  ? 

Yon  king,  with  millions  at  his  beck, 
Will  prove,  with  blood  and  life  not  his, 
The  world  was  made  that  he  might  rule, 
And  men  were  made  that  he  might  prove  it  his. 

Yon  beauty,  royal  with  youth's  smile, 
Must  pick  and  choose  the  world's  gifts  o'er, 
And  keep  and  throw  away  at  will, — 
Now  prove  the  universe  is  not  for  her. 

O  potent  self!     In  bird,  or  beast,  or  man, 
Assert  thy  place,  supremely  first, 
But  know  there  is  a  first  that  shall  be  last; 
There  is  a  last  that  never  shall  be  first. 


130 


THE  SHEPHERD'S   MOUNTAIN 

J.   K.   M. 

FORBID  me  not,  O  friend,  in  birthday  words  of 
praise 

To  speak  in  allegory  thus  of  you, 
With  this  excuse, —  to  wish  you  joy  and  length  of  days. 

There  dwelt  a  shepherd,  once,  beside  the  sea, 

And  much,  they  said,  of  books  and  men  he  knew; 

But  all  his  wisdom  fragrance  had  of  wood 

Or  field  or  mountain;  words  of  his  could  be 

Poetic  with  the  waving  of  a  flowering  tree, 

Or  strong  and  serious  like  the  bitter-good 

Of  herb  medicinal;  or  they  could  move 

With  the  majestic  motion  of  a  cloud,  to  prove 

Majestic  truths;  but  oft  in  parable  they  burned 

With  mountain  images  sublime,  aglow 

With  light  that  always  is;  and  oft  they  turned 

To  holy  solitudes  upon  the  heights,  to  show 

That  men  might  learn,  like  him,  to  go 

Where  they  could  meet  with  God,  and  know. 

And  now  his  words,  men  thought,  of  Shasta  seemed, 

And  now  with  some  Imperial  Mountain  gleamed, 

Whereof  he  knew  the  secret  places  best 

That  give  the  souls  of  men  supremest  rest. 


THE   GREEK   GIRL'S 
INVOCATION   TO    ATHENA 

O   DWELLER  in  the  holy  mountain,  hear, 
And  to  my  portals  come,  and,  coming,  flash 
On  all  I  am  the  light  of  thy  clear  eyes, 
Thy  unforgiving  eyes,  whose  search  I  fear, 
Yet  crave  as  my  release  from  ways  unwise; 
Complacent  hours  of  mine  have  known  the  crash 
And  judgment  of  thine  impartial  spear, 
And  found  its  wounding  better  than  caresses 
Of  her,  that  goddess  of  the  Golden  Tresses. 

Athena,  come.      Door  and  window  wait, 
And  porch  and  twining  vine  and  hearthstone  wait; 
The  table  hath  for  thee  the  golden  plate; 
The  chamber  hath  for  thee  the  couch  of  state; 
Oh,  dwell  with  me,  and  be  my  word,  my  thought, 
My  eloquence  of  deed,  that  shall  be  wrought, 
But  only  as  thou  plannest  it  to  be, 
When  I  companioned  am  of  thee. 


132 


THE   WILD    PENNYROYAL 

ROYAL  little  herb  and  wise! 
Other  plants  flaunt  out  in  gold, 
Crimson  tints  or  scarlet  dyes, 
All  to  catch  men's  careless  eyes; 
Humbly  thou  dost  dream  and  plot 
Still  to  live  thyself  forgot; 
Choosest  out  a  dwelling-spot 
Underneath  the  forest-trees, 
By  the  field's  edge  or  the  brook; 
Up  and  down  thine  instincts  look, 
Gather  forth  their  essences 
From  the  maple  and  the  oak, 
From  the  briar-rose  and  the  fern, 
Spicewood  bush  and  purple  scoke, 
Elm  and  ash  and  clean-limbed  beech; 
Whatsoever  these  can  teach 
Thou  hast  art  enough  to  learn 
While  thy  little  torch  doth  burn. 

There  thou  dwellest,  gathering  in 

Wisdom  through  thy  fairy  leaf; 

All  thy  stems  and  roots  begin 

Patience'  tranquil  web  to  spin. 

Thou  forgiveness  dost  contrive 

For  the  foot  that  brings  thee  grief, — 

Nay,  dost  give  to  every  thief 

All  thy  industry  can  win. 

Charity  beyond  compare 

Surely  proves  thee  more  than  fair. 


133 


To  the  Wild  Aimlessly,  one  woodland  day 

Pennyroyal  When  'twas  joy  to  be  alive, 

Turning  from  a  foot-worn  way, 
But  half-aware,  my  wandering  feet 
Trespassed  on  thy  borders  sweet; 
Wafted  upward  and  around 
Came  thy  protest  almost  gay, 
Almost  praising  what  did  wound. 
But,  prophetic,  didst  thou  see 
Out  of  what  thou  wast  to  me 
Flowers  of  thought  and  feeling  bloom 
In  these  distant  fields  and  days? 
Prescient  cunning,  making  room 
Through  my  comfort  for  self-praise ! 
Cold  suspicion  —  let  it  go ! 
Little  didst  thou  care  or  know 
That  a  moment's  flash  could  hold 
Summer  glory,  autumn  gold, 
Wealth  of  springs  and  winters  old. 

Comfort  thee,  thou  little  weed; 
Thoughts  of  thee  are  dear  indeed. 
When  a  woodland  wind  blows  down 
From  the  hills  beyond  the  town, 
When  a  salt  breeze  from  the  sea 
Brings  its  message  in  to  me, 
Grateful  pleasure  takes  the  gift 
As  the  moment's  golden  drift; 
Looks  beyond  the  narrow  street 
To  the  fields  and  pastures  sweet, 
To  the  green  waves  of  the  bay 
As  a  part  of  one  more  day; 


134 


But  when  Memory's  hand  unwinds  To  the  Wild 

Distaffs  dyed  and  spun  and  reeled  —  Pennyroyal 

(Whereof  something  each  one  finds 

Labeled  for  the  solitude 

In  the  which  his  soul  has  set 

Time,  deliberate  to  forget!)  — 

Ah,  when,  Memory's  doors  unsealed, 

All  life's  hidden  things  revealed, 

Forgotten  griefs,  remembered  good, 

All  remembered  good  that  grows 

In  the  halls  of  her  repose, — 

She  to  please  my  heart  doth  bring 

Scent  of  this  familiar  field, 

Breath  of  that  beloved  wood 

Where  thou  growest  close  and  sweet 

As  of  old  about  my  feet; 

There,  around  in  regnant  groups 

Stand  the  oak-trees  and  the  elms, 

And  beneath  them  come  the  troops 

Liberal  Nature  hastes  to  bring 

When  with  giving  she  o'erwhelms 

All  the  gardens  of  the  wood 

With  the  riches  of  the  spring; 

Then  my  heart  owes  this  to  thee, 

That  beside  the  Western  Sea 

Thou  canst  make  youth's  paradise 

In  perennial  beauty  rise; 

Set  the  domes  of  beech-tree  tents 

Under  gloom  of  Tamalpais; 

Make  red  fields  of  clover  glow 

On  the  windy  slopes  below; 

Mingle  with  the  salt  sea  scents 

Subtle  breath  of  woodland  bower, 

Linden  bloom  and  wayside  flower. 


135 


To  the  Wild  Ah,  the  story  is  the  same 

Pennyroyal  That  from  ancient  Scripture  came: 

Them  of  low  estate  He  gives 
Places  which  the  great  have  sought; 
Through  the  lowliest  thing  that  lives 
Miracles  of  love  are  wrought. 


136 


IN    HERMITAGE    WITH    FANCY 

THE  clock  strikes  four.      Deep  starry  skies, 
A  sinking  moon,  a  jagged  line  of  roof, 
And  mountain's  far  black  ridge;  my  window  frames 
This  picture  dim  for  dim  unwilling  eyes 
Too  soon  recalled  from  rest. 

She  stands  aloof 

There, —  the  dear  angel,  Sleep.      With  all  her  names 
Of  beauty,  poet  given,  have  I  besought 
Her  tendance  till  the  east  turns  red: 
But  nay,  she  will  not !      Farther  still  withdrawn  — 
Remote  as  those  fair  fables  she  once  wrought 
Of  dreams  for  me,  reluctant  to  be  led 
From  fireside  play. 

Then  come,  thou  Fancy  kind. 
We  '11  will  to  dream  with  open  eye  till  dawn, 
Like  Chaucer's  little  birds,  and  drive  the  day 
To  come,  the  day  that 's  gone,  so  far  away 
They  shall  not  ope  the  portals  of  the  mind 
To  let  the  world's  aifairing  in,  till  the  sun 
Has  waked  the  world. 

Suppose,  now,  this: 

We  '11  build  a  pleasure-house  for  you  and  me; 
I  know  a  spring  whose  waters  run 
And  skip  along  the  mountain-side,  most  free, 
Most  like  a  frolic  child.      Azaleas  there  unfold 
Their  flowers,  and  there  the  budding  clematis 
Still  starts  with  whiteness.      And  suppose,  now,  this: 
That  there  we  make  our  pleasure-house  to  be. 
"  Built  like  to  that  the  century's  king  of  song 
Once  made  for  his  own  soul?      Or  like  to  his,  -. 


137 


In  Hermitage    That  other,  with  his  friar  and  his  room  of  pink  ? ' ' 
with  Fancy         Nay,  now,  not  so!     A  log-built  cabin,  brown 
With  bark,  a  window  in  a  chink, 
And  low  of  roof;  a  chimney  —  think ! 
Such  as  you  knew  when  all  the  years  were  long, 
And  all  the  bars  to  pleasure-fields  were  down. 

The  clock  strikes  five: —  and  stars,  and  yet  the  stars. 

We  still  will  dream,  for  Fancy  's  loyal  yet. 
Go  thou  with  me  —  for  I  can  go — and  stay 
An  aeon  in  an  hour,  in  hermitage 
Among  the  mountains.      I  can  lead  the  way 
From  here  to  there;  and  now  the  there  is  here. 

Around  this  spot  are  prints  of  Nature's  feet, 
And  ways  there  are  to  learn  her  counsel  sweet. 
For  here  she  gives  long  leisure,  days,  and  nights 
Of  peace,  wood-silent, —  fields  of  calm 
And  brook-led  paths  by  beds  of  mint  and  balm, 
The  morning  breath  of  trees,  and  darling  sights 
Of  small  shy  birds  among  the  sheltering  trees. 
Dost  marvel,  Fancy,  why  I  choose  not  these 
With  dish  of  pulse  and  cotton  gown 
If  need  were,  rather  than  the  streeted  town 
And  all  that  better  it  may  seem  to  give 
While  in  the  stream  of  hurry  I  must  live  ? 

And  here,  at  last,  should  I  but  choose  to  stay, 
Invoking  comrades  with  a  scholar's  daring  thrift, 
Might  Wordsworth  come  familiar  to  my  cabin  door, 
And  sit  to  hear  the  flapping  of  my  fire,  and  say 
His  words  of  tranquil  wisdom.      Yea,  in  joy  and  awe, 
Might  I  hear  Milton's  unmatched  lyre, 


138 


Beneatn  a  sky,  noon-blue,  or  all  aflame  with  fire  In  Hermitage 

Of  mountain  sunset,  or  in  the  roar  with  Fancy 

Of  gusty  rain,  or  sweeping,  hail-white  flaw, 
Or  in  the  eternal  calm  of  starry  heights, 
In  long,  reposeful,  heaven-clear  nights. 

Here  in  some  wild  garden  of  the  pines, 

Oft  might  I  walk  with  Emerson,  serene  and  sage, 

And  feel  the  calm  of  this  old  earth 

Down  to  her  center,  up  from  her  earliest  age, 

The  dim  and  dateless  era  of  her  birth, 

Filter  through  all  his  golden- worded  lines. 

Along  pine-fragrant  alleys,  there  would  sweep  a  gentle 

wind, 

And  Browning's  Pippa  singing  her  clear  song 
Would  cross  the  web  of  sunshine  it  had  spinned 
Between  the  swaying  limbs;  a  whole  day  long 
(So  large  would  be  my  leisure)  might  I,  else,  enjoy 
The  tender  presence  of  Fidele,  or  ask  and  wear 
The  ring  of  Canace,  and  learn  your  ways  and  words, 
And  be  kindred  with  you  close,  you  gentle  birds. 
But  sure  am  I,  whatever  might  befall, 
One  nearer  than  these  kings  of  song  should  come 
And  teach  me  more  than  I  can  hear 
In  windharp,  smiting  leaves,  or  droppings  clear 
From  rain-tipped  boughs,  or  the  orchestral  sum 
Of  woodland  sounds;   and  more  than  I  can  call 
My  own  in  bird,  or  tree,  or  flower,  or  all 
That  mountain  color-glory, — bands  of  purpled  mist, 
Cloud-gray,  night-blue,  dim  and  misty  blue, — 
(Were  it  a  purple  now,  or  whatso  royal  hue?) 
And  all  the  glimmering  lights  and  shades  that  hardly  are, 
They  seem  so  little  real,  look  so  scarcely  true, 
So  far  removed,  so  far. 


139 


In  Hermitage   Ah,  he  should  come,  that  child-eyed  seer 
with  Fancy         Who  sang  such  gracious  things  of  hill  and  field; 
Who  had  companionship  with  star  and  wave, 
With  wind  and  brook,  and  loved  the  souls  of  men  so 

near 

He  feared  to  lose  one  chance  to  say  his  word 
Before  his  time  to  go.      Him  have  I  heard 
In  very  presence — from  him  have  learned  to  save 
My  hour  from  trivial  waste.   Imperfect,  so,  the  "  choir 
Invisible ' '  about  my  cabin  fire, 
If  he  come  not. 

The  mossy  root,  the  leaf 
That  drops  amid  the  affluent  woods  and  dies, 
The  winding  shell  that  greatens  year  by  year 
Its  fairy  crypt,  the  little  ground-rose,  dear 
As  morning  —  have  I  the  thought  that  spies 
Out  these  and  not  the  thought  to  mark 
When  one  has  gone  who  made  us  smile  with  tears 
And  weep  with  smiles,  or,  at  his  winsome  will,  . 
Convoyed  to  stately  dwellings  through  the  arc 
Prismatic  of  a  shell? 

Something  more 
It  were  to  feel  him  living  still, 
Among  us  wholly,  still  our  own 
To  speak  to,  smile  with,  learn  from,  follow. 
The  realm  of  thought  is  cold,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Cold,  and  for  the  heart  forever  hollow. 

To  be  alone, —  always  to  be  alone 

With  shades  and  voices  though  of  Sovereign  Lords, 

Were  that  all  well?     Not  once  to  know  the  hand's 

Warm  touch,  the  eyes'  glad  kindling  from  the  heart  ? 

Shall  they  not  come,  the  living  in  these  lands, 

With  those  that  live  large  lives  apart 

In  lands  we  know  not  ?     Yea,  my  Fancy,  hark ! 


140 


Though  now  the  noonday  bards  have  flown,  In  Hermitage 

The  century's  twilight  shelters  some  to  chant  with  Fancy 

Along  the  years  that  edge  the  mystic  dark 

Before  a  New  Time's  dawn.      There  are  who  weave 

By  paths  of  glowing  life,  their  tales  of  awe 

And  make  their  songs  amid  the  city's  din; 

There  are  who  sing  by  hillside  streams,  and  haunt 

The  glens  of  life.      Now,  what  if  we  could  win 

These  hither  to  this  cabined  hermitage 

To  live  an  aeon  in  an  hour? 

Secrets  unraveled,  go  promise  to  them,  and  tales 

Of  the  little  wood-people  that  creep 

In  the  thickets  all  dusky  and  deep, 

Or  hide  in  the  rocks  of  the  streams, 

And  play  on  the  terraces  mossed 

Over  with  deer-grass  and  matted  with  leaves; 

A  thought's  respite  promise, —  a  breath  of  repose, 

Just  while  the  vireo  another  long  strand 

Into  her  new  nest  works  and  weaves, 

Just  while  the  dew  is  bright  on  the  fresh-blown  rose, 

And  wild-plums  for  the  autumn  planned 

Break  from  their  blossoms  by  light  winds  fanned. 

And  everywhere  peace, —  everywhere! 
Pine- fragrant  stirrings  of  air, 
Sweet  forest  murmurs  mysterious; 
Gentle,  serious, 
Hardly  heard 

Callings  of  bush-dwelling  bird, 
They  may  answer  in  thought  and  in  word; 
Companioned  by  brook  and  by  tree, 
By  Nature  herself  they  may  be. 


141 


In  Hermitage   The  striking  clock !     The  ended  hour  of  dream 
with  Fancy         Brings  day.      Now  I  shall  never  know 

How  real  my  Fancy  might  have  made  it  grow. 

The  stars  are  gone  behind  a  sky 

Of  veiling  mist,  and,  white  and  high, 

My  window  looks  on  things  that  seem 

And  are  not  in  the  cloud  that  fills 

All  space.      There  is  no  more  a  line  of  hills, 

A  jagged  roof,  but  day,  just  day 

That  seeks,  and  forces,  and  must  have  its  sovereign  way. 


142 


ODE   FOR   FOREFATHERS1  DAT 

[Read  at  the  celebration  in  Oakland,  December,  1887. ~\ 
I 

The  heights  at  which  we  dwell  we  choose; 
Horizon  lines  of  prospect  widen  at  the  will, 
Or,  narrowing,  frame  the  acre-land  we  till; 
The  far-spread  blue  illimitable  smiles, 
Or  bends  a  pent-house  dome  above  the  dews 
That  bead  our  garden-plots;  miles  and  miles, 
The  soul  of  fancy  takes  her  soaring  way; 
With  inchworm  spans  slows  on  the  thing  of  clay. 

Had  he  ( saith  one )  the  vision  that  could  catch 
True  glimpse  of  sequence,  overarching  cause, 
Then  would  he  dare  to  make  his  doing  match 
His  fair  ideals;  nor  turn  back,  nor  pause 
For  hindrances,  nor  faint  to  miss  applause, 
Until,  one  day,  the  towers  of  his  ideal 
Should  rise  above  their  city,  tangible  and  real. 
His  aspirations  should  not  fade  and  die, 
Or,  ineffectual,  scorned  to  mere  opinion,  lie. 

Had  he  ( saith  one  )  no  clog  of  fate-imposed  care, 
He  need  not  shame  the  truth  and  compromise 
With  what  is  false,  and,  dumb  with  self-despair, 
Let  live  the  lie  that  brings  him  bread,  nor  rise 
To   some  great  glow  of  spirit,    and,    self-disdaining, 

show 
His  coward  heart   what  highway  it  must  henceforth 

know. 


Ode  for  II 

Forefathers"   -^  go  ^Q&c  oceanjc  men  who  wrOught 

A  track  for  conscience,  laid  its  beams  upon  the  sea; 
With    faith,    large-limbed,  held    man-made    strictures 

naught, 
And  scorned  the  metes  and  bounds  that  said  "Ye  are 

not  free." 
What  to    them  were    clog,    or   hindrance  —  end  still 

undescried  ? 

And  what  were  self,  or  calm,  or  peace  unsanctified? 
They  saw  the  line  of  truth  and  duty 
In  rhythmic  monotone  move  on, 
And  knew  it  for  that  line  of  beauty 
For  eyes  of  men  divinely  drawn. 
This  they  chose,  and,  upward  led,  they  saw 
Glimpses  far  of  Freedom's  snow-clad  height, 
Of  Liberty's  blue  dome  and  stars  of  awe, 
And  dawns  celestial  white. 

Then  seemed  their  limits  narrower  than  the  mind; 

Then  seemed  a  mortal  lack  in  their  own  bread, 

Sprouted  from  so  thin  a  rind 

Of  juiceless  Old  World  soil, 

Of  word-bound,  dark-age  thought, 

That  miserly  repaid  their  toil, 

With  husks  their  hunger  fed, 

And,  asking  all,  gave  naught. 

Ill 

And  so  they  left  the  land 

No  longer  dear 
Above  the  beatings  of  the  heart, 

No  longer  dear 
Above  the  labor  of  the  hand, 


144 


No  longer  dear  Ode  for 

Above  that  dearest  part  Forefathers' 

Of  human  heritage,  Day 

In  every  clime,  in  every  age — 
The  freedom  of  the  soul, 
Supreme  and  whole. 

IV 

And  so  they  came 
In  beautiful  Liberty's  beautiful  name. 

And  has  no  storial  hand 
Kept  note  of  how  the  waiting  land 
Hailed  the  new-type  man,  square  to  the  New  World's 

need, 

Who  thought  no  thought  into  a  deed 
That  had  no  warrant  in  his  creed  ? 
Nay,  none.      Yet  never  symphony  so  grand 
Came  from  the  heart  of  man  to  men 
As  this  that  was  their  welcome  then: 

The  winds  their  trumpets  blew, 

The  white  foam  flew, 

And  far  by  sandy  reach, 

Along  the  icy  beach, 

A  still-renewing  cadence  drew; 

The  dark  waves  dashed, 

And  the  rocks  their  cymbals  clashed, 

And,  permeant,  the  undertone 

Of  the  diapason,  deep  and  lone, 

Of  the  all-including  ocean  overbore 

The  leafless  diapente  sounding  evermore 

From  the  forest  on  the  shore. 

Apotheosis  of  lamentation  ! 

Restless,  longing  lamentation 

Made  the  paean  of  the  planting  of  a  nation  ! 


145 


Ode  for  V 

Forefathers'  Q  svmphonv  of  symphonies  ! 

O  eloquence  of  earth  and  seas, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  poet's  rhyme  ! 

Yet  voices  more  sublime 

Answered  fitly  there, 

In  the  unison  of  prayer: 

"  Father  of  all, 

Out  of  the  sea 

We  cry  to  thee  ! 
Oh,  hear  our  call ! 
Out  of  the  winter's  cold 
And  the  storm- wind's  fold 
We  lift  our  hearts  away  to  thee, 
Into  the  warmth  and  light 
Of  thy  love  and  care, 
Thanks  and  praise  we  bear. 
Thou  hast  brought  us  out  of  Night 
Into  Liberty's  sweet  air. 
Father  of  all,  ourselves  we  give 
That  thy  truth  may  live." 

Outer  wall  and  corner-stone  of  prayer ! 
Surely,  temple  edified  so  fair 
The  centuries  will  spare  ! 

VI 

As  Homer  saw  the  Prospect  Wide,  nor  knew 

The  bounds  by  Nature  set,  nor  dreamed  nor  thought 

to  dream 

How  great  man's  mind  should  one  day  make  it  seem, 
The  Pilgrim  Heroes,  from  their  mount  of  vision,  drew, 
With  eyes  of  faith,  a  far  perspective,  true 


146 


To  God-given  promise,  yet  to  them  too  dim  '  Ode  for 

For  all  surmise,  except  obedience  to  jHim.  Forefathers^ 

In  a  land  they  did  not  know,  transplanted  side  by  side,    Day 
Their  love  and  hope  and  faith,  these  three,  till  now 
abide. 

VII 

They    wrought  —  not     thinking    of  themselves     they 

wrought ! — 

What  strong  twists  in  the  cables  of  the  State, 
What  pure  runs  in  the  blood  of  Western  thought ; 
Whatever  makes  us  permanent  and  great 
Entered  with  them  at  Plymouth's  stormy  gate; 
Praise  to  their  names  and  to  their  great  deeds  glory  ! 
The  Golden  Gate  shall  be  their  salvatory. 

What  honor  to  their  memory  can  we  bring 

In  these  far  days,  in  this  far  summer  land? 

What  were  our  gold,  or  songs  that  we  might  sing? 

Ah,  more  unto  their  honor,  should  we  stand 

Fulfilling  what    they   toiled   for,   worthy,    heart    and 

hand, 

To  bear  their  names  and  add  our  deeds  to  the  story — 
The  Golden  Gate  shall  be  their  salvatory! 

"  Hail  to  them,  thrice  hail !  "  the  west  sea  chimes, 
Like  morning  bells  upon  the  warm  west  shore, 
And  we,  in  these  new  years,  these  good  new  times, 
Recount    their    deeds,    pronounce    their    names    once 

more; 

Ay,  proudly  so,  until  our  new  land's  lore 
Shall  weave  this  golden  thread  with  her  own  glory, 
And  the  Golden  Gate  shall  be  their  salvatory  ! 


OF  THE 

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